


permit me voyage,     love, into your hands

by hakyeonni



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Denial of Feelings, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Strangers to Lovers, in which chasang are both poetry nerds, poor poet! sanghyuk, rich ceo! hakyeon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 23:35:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 72,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14295891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakyeonni/pseuds/hakyeonni
Summary: “does it ever get better?”“I think it does, eventually, once you find your match,” hakyeon muses out loud, more to himself than to the stranger. “but I don’t think it’s easy to get there in the first place.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> okay whew where to begin? this fic has been over a year in the making—I started writing it in feb 2017. it's long. it's the longest one shot i've ever written. it's painfully close to my heart, and it's very hard to sum up using tags and a measly summary; it's about the push-pull of desire between sanghyuk and hakyeon, of wanting to know if they're matched but both being scared to take the leap, of fear and desire and friendship and love and poetry. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy it. title from _voyages_ by hart crane.
> 
> also there's numerous cameos of various idols that appear in this. i've deliberately left them untagged bc i didn't want to be one of those people who tags 293849023 things, but yeah, just a heads up that you'll see some non-vixx names here and there!

_But now_  
_Draw in your head, alone and too tall here._  
_Your eyes already in the slant of drifting foam;_  
_Your breath sealed by the ghosts I do not know:_  
_Draw in your head and sleep the long way home._

Hart Crane,  _Voyages_

 

It’s late, and Hakyeon isn’t expecting any phone calls. Ordinarily he’d let his phone ring and ring and just ignore it—especially as it’s a number he doesn’t recognise and he can’t be bothered with work right now—but the scotch has wormed its way into his blood, so he fumbles for his phone and presses _accept_ before he really knows what he’s doing.

“Hyung,” the voice at the end of the line sobs, “we didn’t match.”

Even drunk like this, Hakyeon’s first reaction is to fling his phone across the room. There’s an unspoken capital _M_ on the word match, and he’d rather not deal with Jaehwan’s heartbreak right now. But then he realises that this man’s deep rumble is nothing like Jaehwan’s whiny crying voice and his heart skips a beat.

“Who?” he asks, although he’s not sure if he’s asking who the stranger is or who it is he didn’t match with.

The man takes a shaky breath in. “Hyung! You know, my girlfriend? Soomin?” His voice wavers on the second syllable of her name, and Hakyeon puts his glass down, full of sympathy for this poor unfortunate stranger. “I know we should have waited for longer. But we just went for it. She asked for a reveal. Her mark was so pretty… But it wasn’t mine.”

Hakyeon runs his finger around the rim of his glass, staring at the last dregs of amber liquid like they can give him all the answers. He’s been where this man is before, although not for a while now; after more than a few flings in his late teens and early twenties, he had given up actively searching for his match. If the tales were true then his match and he would find each other, anyway, so he wasn’t too concerned about it. The sorrow in this stranger’s voice, however, sends him back to five years ago. It’s not a feeling he enjoys.

“I understand, and I’m sorry,” he murmurs in response, wrapping his hand around the glass, the cool touch soothing him. “It’s never a good feeling. Is there anything I can do for you?”

The words slip out before he can stop them, but once they’re out, he finds he actually means them. If this stranger is _this_ distraught, Hakyeon doesn’t want him to fling himself off a balcony or… or whatever it is that heartbroken people do.

There’s a sniffle, a pause, and then a deep sigh. “No, I should be okay.” It’s only when the man slurs that Hakyeon realises he must be drunk, and that’s why he hasn’t pegged that it’s not his hyung that he’s calling but instead a random stranger. Huh. “I just wish things were different. Do you think love is worth it? Why do we even fall in love with people we aren’t matched with? It seems pointless to me.”

“I can’t say as to whether it’s worth it,” Hakyeon replies absentmindedly, pushing his glass away across the marble and hopping off the stool to head upstairs. He takes the stairs lazily, mulling over the stranger’s words. “I would like to say that it is, and that each experience teaches us something new. But I don’t know. Heartbreak is a bitter pill to swallow.”

His wrist catches a sliver of moonlight cast by a gap in the blinds on the ground floor, and he deliberately turns his eyes away from the shadow of his mark, standing out against his skin. “Hyung,” the man sighs softly in his ear, and Hakyeon has to grit his teeth as a shiver runs down his spine. This is intimate, in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. “Does it ever get better?”

It’s a dramatic question, but it’s not asked in a dramatic way, and as Hakyeon sits heavily on the edge of his bed he has to stop himself from answering automatically with a “yes,” because he has no idea. He isn’t matched, and it certainly doesn’t seem like it’s going to happen anytime soon. While he’s not as cut up over this man over it, it does get to him sometimes; it’s hard not to when matched couples are everywhere he looks. “I think it does, eventually, once you find your match,” he muses out loud, more to himself than to the stranger. “But I don’t think it’s easy to get there in the first place.”

“You can say that again, hyung.” The man stifles a huge yawn, triggering Hakyeon to do the same, and he flops backwards on his bed tiredly. It is three am, after all. Way past his bedtime.

“Go to bed,” he chides gently. “Things will look better in the morning. After you get over your hangover.”

The stranger snorts, and when Hakyeon rolls over on his side to stare out his window, he wonders where this man is. Is he curled up on a bed, too, with the phone clutched to his ear like a lifeline? Is he standing at his kitchen island, with bottles littered everywhere? Is he spreadeagled on a lounge with the TV blaring in the background? He realises, belatedly, that everywhere he pictures this stranger is somehow his own house, and shakes his head to clear the image. He’s already putting a face to this stranger and inserting him into segments of his own life. It’s _definitely_ past his bedtime.

“You know I don’t get hangovers,” the man replies, but Hakyeon can hear the soft smile in his voice. “But okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? We can go out after work or something. I need to get drunk again.”

“Okay,” Hakyeon agrees easily, knowing full well that that will most certainly not be happening. “Sleep well.”

A pause. The sound of fabric rustling, almost like the man is sliding into bed. “You too, hyung,” he murmurs softly, and hangs up before Hakyeon can say another word.

*******

This time, when Hakyeon’s phone rings, it startles him out of sleep so badly he nearly rolls off the bed. Blearily he sits up and reaches for his phone, squinting at the clock and running a hand through his hair. “Hello?” he mumbles, swinging his legs out of bed and blinking at the sunlight streaming in through his blinds.

“You need to be dressed in twenty.” Taekwoon’s clipped voice makes him wince. “Dressed and presentable. No rumpled shirts.”

“Who do you think I am?” Hakyeon protests, getting out of bed and ambling towards the bathroom.

Taekwoon sighs, and for once Hakyeon can’t tell if it’s a genuinely exasperated sigh or one that’s tinged by affection. “Someone who would be dead without me,” he deadpans, and hangs up.

Hakyeon’s thoughts don’t stray to the strange phone call the entire time he’s showering and shaving at the same time. He doesn’t think of it when he’s running around trying to find a non-rumpled shirt that matches his tie. It doesn’t cross his mind when he dashes downstairs to find his car waiting for him, Taekwoon sitting in the backseat with a cup of coffee that he pushes into Hakyeon’s hands before signalling the driver to drive away. In fact, he spends most of the morning darting from meeting to meeting and having new business proposals thrown his way that it doesn’t enter his mind until he and Taekwoon are hiding away in his office to eat lunch and he sees his phone lying on the desk in front of him.

“I got a weird phone call last night,” he says around a mouthful of chicken.

Taekwoon perks up at that—it is his job, after all, to prevent Hakyeon being harassed by weirdos, not that his job attracts many—and leans forward slightly. “Weird how? Police weird?”

“No, no,” Hakyeon replies, waving his fork in the air. Taekwoon is good at his job, he knows, but sometimes he’s almost _too_ good. “Not like that. Someone had a wrong number. They wanted advice.”

“And they wanted it from you?” Taekwoon flinches as Hakyeon mimes throwing his fork at his head, but there’s a smile lingering on his lips.

Any other CEO would probably have had Taekwoon’s head for talking back like that, but Hakyeon has always insisted on keeping their relationship as informal as Taekwoon allows. It’s a way to keep himself sane at work, since the tiny little publishing company he started all those years ago has spiraled and spiraled to become an international conglomerate, which isn’t really what he intended. All of a sudden he was expected to wear suits to work every day, because that’s what CEOs of multinational companies _did_. He didn’t really know what to do with the ultra-formal role that was suddenly thrust upon him, so insisting that Taekwoon treated him more like a friend and less like a boss helped him cope, and it’s just carried on since then.

“Asshole,” he mutters, stabbing a piece of chicken and staring at it contemplatively. “Poor kid. He’d just broken up with his girlfriend because they didn’t match.”

Hakyeon glances over at Taekwoon as he finishes talking, so he sees his eyes flick to Hakyeon’s wrist for a moment before finding his face again. Hakyeon’s wearing his Omega—a birthday present to himself from the year before last—and his fingers automatically find the band, adjusting it so it sits firmly over his mark. “That’s unfortunate. What did you tell him?” Taekwoon’s asking, and Hakyeon ignores the way his mark is itching underneath the watch.

“That I think you have to go through a lot of shit to find your match,” he says, trying to keep any bitterness out of his tone.

There’s not a lot of bitterness there, not really. Hakyeon has been single for a long time now, and he thought that he’d come to terms with that fact. But the stranger’s phone call has brought up feelings he thought he’d repressed. It’s entirely unnerving.

“You’re right about that.” Taekwoon nods and closes the lid of his container, getting up to put it in the bin. As he goes, his pants ride up slightly at the ankle, allowing Hakyeon to get a good eyeful of his mark, dark against the pale of his skin. As someone who is matched, it’s not rude for Taekwoon to display his mark openly in public, but Hakyeon still averts his eyes anyway. He’s seen it countless times before, but it’s the polite thing to do. “Sometimes it feels like it will never end.”

Taekwoon’s words ring through his head the rest of the afternoon—which is thankfully a lot less hectic than his morning—making sure that he gets very little work done, because his mind keeps drifting back to that man, the way he’d said _hyung_. He stares at the title page of a manuscript until the words blur in front of him, but it doesn’t help. Neither does the coffee that Taekwoon imbibes him with. By the time he leaves the office his mind is all over the place, much to his chagrin. It’s not like him to get distracted so easily.

“Hakyeon,” Taekwoon murmurs, catching Hakyeon’s wrist as he goes to slide out of the car, which has pulled up out the front of his apartment. “Are you alright?”

Hakyeon sees the way Taekwoon is frowning slightly, feels the way his fingers are digging into the flesh just above his mark, and meets his eyes. “Of course. I’m always frazzled on Mondays, you know that.”

“Not like this,” Taekwoon points out, raising an eyebrow. “Do you want company?”

“No, it’s alright.” Hakyeon gestures to his briefcase. “I brought some work home with me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Taekwoon grimaces, but lets go of Hakyeon’s wrist, and there’s no further protests as he slides out of the car and heads inside the lobby, returning the receptionist’s cheerful wave. When the elevator doors open to his apartment—the huge windows displaying an unrivalled view of the city below—he sighs and drops his briefcase on the floor, loosening his tie and wandering over to the piano. He can’t play anything, apart from _Ode to Joy_ and maybe _Chopsticks,_ if he concentrates, but he’d got it because it fits the space and he quite enjoys playing with the keys. Right now, though, all that’s on his mind is that phone call, so he pulls his phone out of his pocket and scrolls to the call log.

_unknown number — yesterday — 5 minutes 44 seconds_

He hovers his thumb over the button to call back and chews his lip, considering. It’s probably not his place. It’s _definitely_ not his place. He’s nothing but a drunk misdial. But there’s some niggling little voice in his head that’s worried for the stranger he doesn’t know anything about, worried because the sorrow in his voice was something so palpable that Hakyeon can still taste it, hours later. Surely it would be alright for him to ring just to make sure the stranger is still alive? Surely?

He presses down and holds the phone to his ear as it rings.

“Hello?”

Hakyeon lets out the breath he didn’t even realise he was holding when the man picks up. “Um, hey,” he says, and then blanks as he has no idea where to even begin. “You called this number last night? Um, I think it was a wrong number. We talked for a bit. I was… I was just calling to see if… you were okay…?”

There’s a long silence as he sits down at the piano, lifting the lid and running his hands absentmindedly over the keys. For a moment he thinks that the man has hung up on him, which wouldn’t surprise him, even if it would disappoint him a bit. But then there’s a laugh, a deep throaty one, and Hakyeon slumps his shoulders in relief. “Oh, shit! That’s so embarrassing,” the man laughs. “I meant to ring Wonshik hyung. I realised when I woke up this morning, but I don’t remember what we talked about. Was it… What did I say?”

 _Wonshik hyung_. Hakyeon files that away under things he knows about this man. There’s nothing much else there, except that he was dating a girl called Soomin. “That you and your ex didn’t match. You were, uh, pretty upset about it.” He pauses, looking at his hand stretched out on the ivories, and then figures he’s gone this far and has nothing to lose. “I know this is probably crossing a line, but are you alright?”

Another pause. “I… I didn’t expect a stranger to care that much. But yeah, I’m fine. Or I will be. Breakups suck.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Hakyeon replies, and he isn’t lying when he says it. He couldn’t fake the warmth in his voice even if he wanted to, anyway. “My name is Cha Hakyeon, by the way. I’m sorry for ringing you up out of the blue. I was kind of worried about you.”

“Thanks!” the man replies, and Hakyeon slumps his shoulders when he hears the genuine gratitude there. “I’m Han Sanghyuk. Sorry again about the weirdness. I’ll be more careful next time I feel like having a mental breakdown.”

 _Sanghyuk_. Hakyeon holds the phone away from his ear and whispers the name to himself, tasting the syllables, rolling them over his tongue like he can extract some deeper meaning from them. It’s a nice name, and he’s smiling like an idiot when he puts his phone back to his ear as they say their goodbyes. It’s slightly awkward, because the whole _situation_ is awkward, but when he puts his phone back on the piano and plays a random chord it feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. Sanghyuk is fine, and he he’ll get over his breakup, and Hakyeon has no reason to worry.

He shuts the lid of the piano and heads back over to his briefcase, humming happily as he grabs the manuscript lurking within. Now that that’s dealt with, he can start to catch up on all the work he missed this morning. Looking back it now seems silly that he was so distracted; it’s not like him to get so hung up on such things.

Oh well. He can close that peculiar chapter and move on.

*******

“Hyung!”

Jaehwan’s pouting—because he’d long ago figured out that he’s nearly irresistible when he sticks his bottom lip out and screws up his face—as he calls to Hakyeon from across the room, hanging off the back of the sofa.

“What?” he replies, pouring himself another scotch and raising an eyebrow.

From where he is—standing at his kitchen island—he can see Jaehwan wriggle so violently he nearly topples over the edge of the sofa, saved only by Taekwoon’s hand snaking out to catch his ankle and tug him backwards. “Can you get me another drink? Pwease?”

Hakyeon resists the urge to throw the bottle at his head, only because it’s a four-thousand dollar bottle of scotch and it would be a pain in the ass to buy a new one. Instead he opens the fridge door and grabs a bottle of soju for Jaehwan, some ice cubes from the freezer for his scotch, and spins neatly to kick the door shut behind him. “I don’t know why I bother,” he grumbles, pushing the soju into Jaehwan’s outstretched hands and flopping down on the sofa next to him, stretching his legs out.

“Because you wuv me,” Jaehwan slurs, snuggling closer to Hakyeon as he cracks the bottle open and takes a long swig.

Hakyeon rolls his eyes and sighs, but there’s no heart to it, and he pats Jaehwan’s head fondly. “If this is love I’m suddenly grateful for being unmatched,” he grumbles, hearing Taekwoon snort. “Now, whose turn is it?”

“Mine!” Taekwoon snaps, snatching the controller from the table before Hakyeon can even make a move for it. Jaehwan has the other in his hands, so he shrugs and settles back to watch them go at it. He’s not really sure why they both insist playing Mario Kart 64, considering it’s nearly as old as Jaehwan, but he had learnt long ago not to bother trying to get a word in edgeways about games.

It had been Taekwoon who had introduced him to Jaehwan years ago, not long after Hakyeon hired him. Hakyeon never quite fit in with the people he was forced to mingle with at business dinners or parties; having grown up in a relatively middle-class family, he didn’t really know what to do with his new-found wealth. It was too easy to use the wrong fork, or buy the wrong car, or say the wrong thing. Worst of all, though, was the feeling that he was there by mistake, that he didn’t belong. It was isolating and incredibly lonely, and for the first few years as his tenure as CEO he’d only really spoken to Taekwoon outside of work.

That was until Taekwoon took him to a party and introduced him to Jaehwan (“he wasn’t born wealthy either,” he’d said, his eyebrows furrowing together as Hakyeon clasped his hands nervously in the car on the way there, “and he’s always been the odd one out. I think you’ll get along”), and they’d hit it off and had become nearly inseparable since then. Jaehwan is wealthy because of an inheritance he received in his late teens, which essentially means he will never have to work another day—as it is, he likes to paint in his spare time, and his works are pretty decent when he puts effort in. Considering most of his time is spent either annoying Hakyeon or Taekwoon or both, or buying ridiculous things over the internet—once Hakyeon had turned up at Jaehwan’s apartment to find a ridiculously expensive harp sitting in one of his hallways, an instrument he doesn’t even _play_ —or going on a seemingly endless string of dates in the hope of finding his match, he doesn’t seem to find much time for work.

“Fuck off!” Jaehwan squeaks, jolting Hakyeon out of his reverie as he launches a kick in Taekwoon’s direction. “Hyung! Not fair!”

Taekwoon cackles maniacally as he dodges Jaehwan’s flailing leg, a grin stretched across his face. The TV is showing Taekwoon’s expert use of a blue shell, disabling Jaehwan as he shot past for the win, and Hakyeon rolls his eyes. He doesn’t get quite as heated as the others with video games—sometimes he’s had to actually pry them away from each other for fear that someone is going to get a controller lodged somewhere very painful.

“Hakyeon, your phone,” Taekwoon mutters absentmindedly, his eyes on the screen. Sure enough, when Hakyeon looks back towards the kitchen, he can hear the distant sound of AOA’s _Like A Cat_ —Jaehwan’s choice of ringtone, although he didn’t protest too much because he likes the song—over the noise of Mario Kart. He shrugs and turns back to the TV, but Taekwoon’s watching him now, his eyes narrowed. “It’s 2 am. Who would be calling you?”

Hakyeon opens his mouth to say that he has no idea, and that he’ll let it go to voicemail—but then through his tipsy haze he _remembers_ , he remembers Sanghyuk’s phone call from three weeks ago; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget, although he’s not sure why. The other man hasn’t really crossed his mind since, but now that his phone is ringing he knows, he just _knows_ , and in one smooth movement he rises off the sofa to cross the floor in two strides, reaching for his phone.

“Hello?” he says somewhat breathlessly, chewing on the ragged edge of a thumbnail.

“Hakyeon?” Sanghyuk mumbles, and Hakyeon sags against the island. There’s a funny warmth behind his breastbone at hearing his voice, which he is going to blame on the alcohol, because he doesn’t want to contemplate what it could mean otherwise. “I’m sorry about ringing you again. I just…”

“Wait, hang on, hold that thought,” Hakyeon blurts, aware that Taekwoon’s eyes are boring a hole in his back. He heads towards his balcony, opening the door and wincing at the cool air on his face—he’s just wearing an oversized shirt and a pair of pyjama shorts because the heating in his apartment is so effective—before leaning on the railing and staring out at the city. “Okay, sorry. What’s wrong?”

Sanghyuk sighs into the phone. It’s a soft kind of noise, and Hakyeon closes his eyes, letting it fill him. “I’m drunk again, and I just wanted to… I don’t know. Hear your voice. You have a nice voice.”

“Yours isn’t so bad either.” Hakyeon wraps one hand around the metal of the railing, grounding himself. It’s somehow easy to get carried away like this, which would be absurd. Sanghyuk is just lonely, and Hakyeon understands how he feels. Connecting with a stranger is almost easier than reaching out to those around you. He _knows_ this. “How can I help?”

“Can you just… talk to me? It doesn’t matter what about. I can’t sleep.”

When Hakyeon turns to look back over his shoulder, he sees Jaehwan and Taekwoon staring out at him, their faces unreadable. Well, Taekwoon’s is; Jaehwan looks curious, and he mouths something that Hakyeon can’t catch. He just rolls his eyes and turns back to look over the city, glittering underneath him, and begins to speak.

“I don’t know where you live, but I’m standing on my balcony right now, so I can probably see you. Have you ever seen the city like this at night?” Sanghyuk whispers a sound that might be a _yeah_ , so Hakyeon continues. “It’s gorgeous, right? I can see the river from here. It’s almost a full moon, so everything is soft and silvery.”

“You live near the river?” Sanghyuk mumbles, his voice heavy with tiredness.

Hakyeon practically lives _on_ the river, in the most expensive district in the city, but clarifying that would just come off as bragging and he somehow doesn’t want to scare Sanghyuk off. “Yeah, sort of. Close enough.” He tilts his head back to look at the sky, which is surprisingly cloudless. “Hey, can you see the stars from where you are? They’re so pretty.”

“Sirius,” Sanghyuk says, but his voice is almost a whisper now. “The brightest star in the sky. Can you see it?”

He’d taken an intro to astronomy class back in high school—he’d only taken it to boost his marks, but it had actually been pretty interesting—which is how he knows to find Orion’s belt and trace a line down to Sirius, glittering brightly in the sky. “Yeah. Why?”

“It’s my favourite star.”

Hakyeon nearly drops the phone, he’s so startled. That’s not what he was expecting Sanghyuk to say at _all_. He hadn’t known what to expect, really, but certainly not _that_. What kind of person has a favourite star? What kind of person just points that out casually, like they’re pointing out the weather? He opens his mouth to ask but is rewarded with the sound of a soft snore in his ear, and smiles to himself as he hangs up, turning to go back inside.

He’s set upon almost immediately by Jaehwan, who loops an arm around him and drags him back to the sofa, pleading that he’s tired of getting his ass kicked by Taekwoon and how it’s Hakyeon’s turn now. Obligingly, he takes the controller, keeping his eyes trained on the screen so he can avoid meeting their gazes. He doesn’t have to be a mind reader to feel the curiosity burning in them; it washes over him in waves, although neither of them say anything about it.

He thinks he gets away with it right until Taekwoon ushers him to bed—even when he’s not on Hakyeon’s payroll, he still acts like an assistant, no matter how many times Hakyeon has to remind him that he’s _older_ —and pauses at the door, hovering, his hair falling in his eyes so Hakyeon can’t gauge his expression.

“That was that kid again, wasn’t it?” he asks quietly.

For a moment, Hakyeon considers denying it, although he’s not sure why. There’s nothing wrong with their conversations, and they’re not doing anything too weird. God, maybe Taekwoon thinks he was out on the balcony having phone sex. How embarrassing.

He raises one shoulder in a shrug as he sits on the edge of his bed, plugging his phone in to be charged. “Yeah. He was… upset again. He said I had a nice voice.”

When he looks up, Taekwoon’s frowning, although he still doesn’t know why. “Alright. Goodnight, Hakyeon.”

“Goodnight,” Hakyeon murmurs to his retreating back, trying to ignore the faint blanket of unease that settles over him.

*******

When Hakyeon rolls out of bed the next morning and pads into the kitchen to find Jaehwan perched at his island eating cereal shirtless, he can’t be bothered to chastise him. Jaehwan’s stayed over more times than Hakyeon can count; it’s almost become normal, now, to see him spread out over furniture, making Hakyeon’s apartment his own. With Jaehwan’s back to him, the shape of his mark is clearly visible; the shadowy shape is almost as familiar as his own, and it’s all too easy to dig his fingers into it and make Jaehwan jump. For ages he’d wondered why the hell Jaehwan’s mark is what it is—the silhouette of a cactus, smack bang in the middle of his right shoulder blade—until he’d wandered into Jaehwan’s bedroom to find one whole windowsill dedicated to pot plant after pot plant of cacti. It’s kooky and eclectic, just like Jaehwan, and it’s actually kind of cute. Not that he’d ever tell Jaehwan that.

“Where’s Taekwoon?” he grunts, snatching the bowl out of Jaehwan’s hands deftly and bringing it to his lips to drink the milk and remnants of soggy cereal.

Jaehwan shrugs and tugs the bowl free of Hakyeon’s grip, reaching for more cereal. “Left early, I’d say. You know he never stays for long.”

“Yeah, Gayeong nags if he’s home too late.” He reaches in the cupboard for a bowl of his own and slides it over to Jaehwan, who dutifully pours some cereal in for him. “What are your plans for today?”

He doesn’t realise that he’s left his phone right next to him on the bench, because Jaehwan’s eyes light up when he sees it, and he snatches it away before Hakyeon can even react. “Never mind that. What was up with that phone call last night? It was that stranger again, wasn’t it? What the hell was he calling you for?”

“Don’t!” Hakyeon snaps, grabbing his phone and clutching it close to his chest. He’s strangely defensive in the face of all of Jaehwan’s (perfectly valid) questions. “He just wanted to talk. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Jaehwan’s bleating fades away, though, when he looks down and sees that he has a text—well, two texts actually, but one’s from Taekwoon and as such can be ignored—from the number that he recognises instantly as Sanghyuk’s. _sorry about last night_ , it reads. _didn’t mean to get all weird on u again…_

“He texted you!” Jaehwan squeals, snatching the phone back and holding it above his head to read the message. “Oh my god. This is like a drama. I’m watching the plot of a drama play out right now. What are you doing to say back?” He pauses for breath and looks at Hakyeon very seriously. “When he says weird, how weird are we talking?”

Hakyeon pours milk in his cereal and takes an angry bite, chewing furiously to stop himself from reaching out and throttling Jaehwan. “Not weird at all. He just wanted someone to _listen_. I don’t think you know what that means.”

“Are you going to reply?” Jaehwan unlocks the phone—Hakyeon kicks himself for making his passcode _1990_ , his birth year, because Jaehwan had figured it out easily ages ago—and hovers his thumbs over the keyboard. “You have to reply. This is amazing.”

Chewing contemplatively, Hakyeon thinks. Sanghyuk didn’t have to send him a text apologising, but he did, and he’s not sure what it means (aside from the fact that he remembers calling Hakyeon this time). He’s not even sure why it should mean anything… Or why he wants it to. “Um, yeah. Just say something like… ‘it’s okay! I’ll make sure to keep an eye out for Sirius from now on.’ And add a smiley face on the end.”

“What the hell does that mean?” mutters Jaehwan, but he types the message diligently anyway, flashing it to Hakyeon before pressing send. “On second thought, nope. Don’t want to know.”

This time, when Hakyeon wrangles the phone free of Jaehwan’s grip, he sticks it in the waistband of his shorts, ignoring Jaehwan’s pleas to let him see it again. He doesn’t say a word when he feels it vibrate, either, because he’s not stupid and he actually wants Jaehwan to leave his apartment, and if he gets wind of a reply he’ll probably camp out in Hakyeon’s bedroom for the hell of it. It’s not until he sends Jaehwan on his way an hour later that he finally unsticks his phone from his hip to look at it.

_when i’m around the river i’ll make sure to keep an eye out for u too :)_

Hakyeon’s heart does a funny little backflip at that, and he grips onto the phone so hard his knuckles turn white. Woah. Okay. He didn’t expect that, and he didn’t expect his own reaction to Sanghyuk’s words. Just the thought of Sanghyuk looking at all the buildings on the river—looking for _him_ —there’s a spark of something there, some emotion he can’t or won’t identify, and he locks his phone quickly before he can text back something idiotic.

He goes about the rest of his day smiling, though, and has to resist the urge to keep looking out his windows like he can actually see Sanghyuk down there looking up.

*******

For all his nervousness, his phone stays resolutely silent for the rest of the day. It doesn’t go off the day after that, either. Nor the day after that. Before Hakyeon knows it, a week passes and he’s midway into the next, his phone stubbornly refusing to show any notifications from Sanghyuk at all. He gets a lot of texts from Jaehwan—mainly along the lines of _has he called yet? has he???? HAS HE????_ — as well as some from Taekwoon, although those are just about work and aren’t really as interesting.

He’s tucked up in his study with a manuscript and a glass of wine when his phone vibrates on the desk in front of him, and he eyes it for a moment before going back to the manuscript. It’s probably Jaehwan, who is a night owl just as he is; they often have conversations long into the early morning when Hakyeon’s working. Perhaps now that he’s a CEO he should hand this job off to his subordinates (the sad fact is most of the work he does now is no longer of the editing and publishing variety but shaking hands and rubbing shoulders with the upper crust), but he loves reading manuscripts, and it gives their company a personal touch—even though there’s no chance he can get to every single manuscript that’s sent in, of course. That was the reason he started this whole thing, after all; he never was quite good enough to create, to paint pictures with words, so propelling others forward was almost as satisfying.

His phone vibrates again, and he doesn’t even look up—until it keeps going, and he realises he’s getting a phone call. He stares at it, his fingers gripping the stem of his wine glass tightly, not quite daring to make a move. He has _tried_ to forget the way Sanghyuk had sounded, sleepy and gravelly, but every time he does something pops up to remind him again. It’s completely moronic to be this hung up over a stranger who almost certainly doesn’t feel the same way, but at the same time it gives him a little thrill to be like this; he’s nearly always sensible, as befitting for his job, and having butterflies over a stranger is most definitely not sensible.

He can see, even from here, that it’s Sanghyuk’s number flashing up on the screen—after the second conversation he’d saved it in his phone, telling himself firmly that he needed to know if Sanghyuk called again—so, with trepidation, he reaches out and presses _accept_ before he really knows what he’s doing.

“Hey,” Sanghyuk begins, and Hakyeon notices that even with that one word there’s a sharpness to his voice that wasn’t there before. Perhaps he’s not drunk this time. “Sorry for calling, again. I just… I don’t know. Would it be stupid of me to say I couldn’t get you out of my head?”

Hakyeon is stunned into silence for so long that he almost forgets Sanghyuk is waiting for a reply. That is the last thing he expected. Sanghyuk is so blatant, so open, and even though Hakyeon knows next-to-nothing about him he’s intrigued regardless. “No,” he says slowly, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking the same. Don’t you think it’s odd?”

“It’s not that odd. You have a nice voice. I’m curious. That’s all there is to it.”

It sounds like Sanghyuk is trying to convince himself as much as he is Hakyeon, so he smiles as he sips on his wine. “Yeah? What are you curious about?” he replies, not even bothering to hide the flirtatious note in his voice. He can’t even blame the wine, because this is his first glass. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

Sanghyuk laughs, and it’s such a nice sound that Hakyeon wants to melt into it. “Let’s start with something easy… How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-seven. Yourself?”

“Oh,” Sanghyuk says, and he sounds faintly embarrassed. “Sorry, Ha—hyung. I’m twenty-two.”

Huh. Hakyeon takes another sip of his wine—a pinot noir he’d had imported at close to a thousand dollars a bottle—and rolls it over his tongue, considering. He’d pegged Sanghyuk to be around that; he’s definitely younger than Hakyeon, but there’s a certain maturity about the way he speaks, the words he chooses to use. “And what do you do with yourself? When you’re not ringing me up in the middle of the night, that is.”

“Ah…” Sanghyuk begins, and Hakyeon can hear him inhale, can hear him pacing over what must be wooden floorboards. Even though Hakyeon has no idea what he looks like, he can picture him running a hand through his hair. “I… I’m a bartender, but I write on the side. Sort of.”

Hakyeon’s heart spikes at that, and he puts the wine glass down somewhat shakily. “A writer? Really? What do you write?”

He realises belatedly that he’s coming across a little over-eager, but he can’t be bothered to temper himself. He’s been surrounding himself with writing for so long that it’s almost become second nature to him; he never could grasp words the way others do, so he is fascinated by anyone who can.

“Poetry… and song lyrics for a friend, when he asks.”

A shiver runs down Hakyeon’s spine, insidious and delicious, and he closes his eyes and tries to ground himself desperately. _Don’t get carried away_ , he tells himself, even as he’s opening his mouth to practically purr, “You become more intriguing by the minute, Sanghyuk.”

There’s a long, long silence, where Hakyeon thinks maybe he has crossed an invisible line and begins to regret every word—but then Sanghyuk snorts softly and mutters something that sounds vaguely like _fuck it_ , before saying, “What are you doing right now?”

“Looking at a manuscript with some wine,” Hakyeon replies cautiously.

“Want something better to do?”

His answer is instantaneous, even as his pulse quickens. “Of course.”

“Okay,” Sanghyuk replies, and he sounds happy. “I’ll text you an address. Come get me.”

When Hakyeon hangs up, he stares at his phone like it’s about to leap up and bite him. His heart is hammering in his chest, and his pulse is roaring in his ears. This is dangerous. This is dangerous and exhilarating and it’s exactly what he’s not meant to do, so he doesn’t hesitate to get up and traipse into his bathroom to bathe. He sends a text off to Jaehwan— _I think i’m going to meet Sanghyuk right now? maybe?_ —and by the time he’s showered and dressed, he has a reply from Jaehwan and an address from Sanghyuk. The reply reads _OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! TELL ME EVERYTHING! DON’T DIE_ , and the address is in a part of town that’s on the other side of the river. It’s not one he’s familiar with, but he shrugs and gets his stuff anyway, heading down to the garage.

He has four cars, which, among his contemporaries, really isn’t that much—some acquaintances he knows have whole garages full. His little collection is pitiful in comparison, although to the layperson the amount of wealth in front of him is mind boggling. In addition to the black Rolls Royce Phantom he uses as his daily driver, he has a bright red Porsche 991 GT3, a matte black Nissan GT-R, and—the pride of his collection—a McLaren P1 in glossy blue. None of them seem particularly fitting for Sanghyuk, who’s a bartender for Christ’s sake. The Porsche and the P1 are out, because they are too ostentatious, and even the GT-R tends to turn heads. Not in this district, but where he’s going?

He huffs and heads towards the Rolls Royce, figuring it’s at least got a back seat—and then inwardly chastises himself for even thinking that. He _knows_ he wasn’t imagining the flirting, the tension between them, but there’s absolutely no point putting the cart before the horse at this point.

 _leaving now. see you in twenty_ , he texts to Sanghyuk as he peels out of his garage, turning the radio on to hum along nervously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> optional reading for this fic can be found on my [livejournal](https://hakyeonni.livejournal.com/tag/soulmark), mainly in the form of visual guides to things mentioned. absolutely **not** required reading. just mainly me being a nerd about expensive cars.
> 
> in that vein, [here's](https://hakyeonni.livejournal.com/4626.html) a post i made about hakyeon's cars. again, you don't need to read it at all. just me being a nerd :)
> 
> if you enjoyed, pls do let me know! i'll have another chapter for you guys soon! ♡


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s a moment where they’re just staring at each other, Hakyeon with his hands wrapped around the wheel, and all he can think is _what are you?_

The whole drive there he spends worrying and fussing—is he dressed appropriately? What will Sanghyuk think?—and sneaking glances at his phone on the passenger seat. It lights up occasionally, but he can see that it’s just Jaehwan freaking out. He’s pretty sure he sees Taekwoon’s name flash up, too, which means he’s in trouble tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind all that much. He needs to live a little somehow, and he certainly isn’t doing it in boardrooms and endless meetings.

According to his phone, the address Sanghyuk’s given him is a café, which he figures is pretty smart. They don’t know each other, after all, so meeting in a public place seems to be the best option. Never mind that it’s one in the morning; when he pulls up out the front, he can see it’s busy, full of young people dressed in hoodies and jumpers emblazoned with a university name on the front. Yes, this is most definitely _not_ his district, but instead of feeling disheartened or unsafe, he simply feels strangely numb as he gets out of the car, reaching in the back for his leather jacket and pulling it on. It’s chilly, but he doesn’t mind.

 _I’m here! and pissing myself_ , he texts to Jaehwan, leaning on the car and closing his eyes. He isn’t lying. He is slightly terrified, and very, very nervous; what was he _thinking?_ This is possibly the stupidest thing he’s ever done. People like him aren’t meant to do things like this. People like him are meant to be asleep by now, not loitering around out the front of cafés waiting for strangers they’ve never met. On one hand, he’s never been like anyone else, as hard as he tried; on the other hand, he’s scared, and wants to scurry back to the safety of his own apartment.

“Hyung?”

Hakyeon knows that voice well by now, so when his eyes snap open to see a man peering down at him, he drops his keys from the sudden shock. “Sanghyuk?” he stammers, bending down to pick them up, wrapping his fingers around the cool metal. “I… Hello?”

Sanghyuk is tall, taller than he’d expected, and he automatically straightens up to his full height as well. He’s gorgeous, too, which is maybe why Hakyeon is so shocked—hair flopping over his forehead, full lips, pretty eyes; Hakyeon’s entranced, which means he’s just staring instead of saying anything. Sanghyuk’s staring at him, too, and when he looks Hakyeon up and down his gaze is hot and he blushes, unable to control it.

“It’s really you!” Sanghyuk blurts, bounding over to pull Hakyeon into a hug, a smile splitting his face in two. “This is so weird!”

What’s weirder, though, is the jolt that goes through Hakyeon the moment they make contact—in this case, it’s his face, smushed against the side of Sanghyuk’s neck. It’s like a low voltage of electricity straight to his skin, and when Sanghyuk pulls back Hakyeon’s eyes fall to his lips, close enough to touch. It’s a _spark_ , a shock, and he swears he sees Sanghyuk’s pupils dilate as they stare at each other’s lips. They are a hair’s breadth away from kissing; all Hakyeon would have to do is lean up slightly, but he doesn’t, too afraid to move and ruin it all. He doesn’t know if Sanghyuk feels the electricity between them, doesn’t know if it’s all in his head. He doesn’t really care, though. He’s hooked.

“Um,” he breathes, clenching his fists to resist the urge to pull Sanghyuk closer, “nice to meet you?”

“You too, hyung.” Hakyeon is still having trouble reconciling that voice— _it’s my favourite star_ —with the man standing in front of him. It’s not like he can back away, either, since he’s pinned up against the Rolls. “Nice car,” Sanghyuk eventually says, taking a step back and folding his arms over his chest.

All of a sudden it’s like Hakyeon can breathe again, and he tries not to let the relief show on his face—relief and a little bit of sadness, too, because being in Sanghyuk’s orbit is like nothing he’s ever felt before. “I don’t think you dragged me all the way out here to compliment my car,” he replies, raising an eyebrow and thanking god that his wit hasn’t left him in the wake of Sanghyuk’s touch. “In fact, I’m left wondering what it is exactly you _did_ drag me out here for.”

Sanghyuk raises his eyebrows, but a smirk settles on his face, and Hakyeon’s rapt. “Are you complaining?” he asks, and Hakyeon knows he isn’t imagining the flirtatiousness of his words—and the fact that their little push-pull is getting somewhere is unbelievably exhilarating.

“Not at all.” He runs a hand through his hair, watching Sanghyuk watching him, and smiles. “But I _am_ cold. Shall we?”

He gestures to the door of the coffee shop, and obligingly, Sanghyuk turns and makes his way inside. Hakyeon ignores the way his phone is vibrating in his pocket—no doubt Jaehwan with ‘advice’—and follows him, heaving a sigh once he gets inside. With this many warm bodies packed in, the shop is hot, much to his relief. “What do you usually get?” he murmurs, coming up beside Sanghyuk and deliberately pressing into him a little bit so their arms brush.

It’s plainly the most bizarre situation he has ever been in, but when the attraction between them is so real and palpable he just can’t bring himself to care. Part of his brain is telling him to slow down, to be cautious, to not rush into this—but another, louder part of his brain is telling him to live a little.

“Normally I’d have a coffee, but considering it’s…” Before Hakyeon can move, Sanghyuk reaches down to grab his wrist to read the time. He stiffens, and nearly pulls back—not only is Sanghyuk touching him, he’s touching him disturbingly close to his mark, and it almost feels like his whole arm is on fire in a strangely pleasurable way. “One ten in the morning, I think I’ll go for a hot chocolate.”

He’s sure he looks like a crazy person as he slowly extricates his wrist from Sanghyuk’s grip, resisting the urge to grab him by the waist and pull him in for a kiss right then and there. What the fuck has gotten into him? He’s never felt like this about anyone, never been so consumed by lust. It would be unnerving if it didn’t feel so right, so without hesitating he turns to the cashier and says, “Two hot chocolates to go, please,” and hands over his card.

“To go, huh?” Sanghyuk bumps into him gently, and when Hakyeon looks up he can see he’s still grinning. “How do I know you’re not going to drag me away and murder me? Stranger danger and all of that.”

Hakyeon raises an eyebrow back. “Do I look like the murdering type?”

Sanghyuk looks him up and down again—but this time it’s not a cursory glance. It’s a slow drag from his feet to his eyes, and by the time Sanghyuk’s done Hakyeon feels hot all over, not just because of how warm it is. The smile is gone, now. All that’s written on Sanghyuk’s face is lust, as plain as day, and he shivers under the weight of it. “No, you don’t,” he mutters, but he sounds as hoarse as Hakyeon feels.

There are no more words between them as they grab the hot chocolates and head back to Hakyeon’s car—no point, since they both know they’re heading towards an inevitability as finite as it is inescapable. There’s a moment where they’re just staring at each other, Hakyeon with his hands wrapped around the wheel, and all he can think is _what are you?_ It’s a question he doesn’t know the answer to, doesn’t know if he wants to know the answer to, so he just starts the car and peels away from the kerb perhaps a bit more briskly than strictly necessary. He knows where he’s going, although he hasn’t been there in ages and has to rely on his memory for directions—not really a good thing, since he spends most of his time these days getting driven around rather than doing it himself.

When he pulls up, Sanghyuk looks out the windscreen and shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. Hakyeon has to bite back one himself as he gets out of the car, taking his untouched hot chocolate with him, to walk around the front and sit on the bonnet. When Sanghyuk joins him a moment later, looking dubiously at the car like he can’t quite believe Hakyeon’s just sitting on it, he leans into the younger man shamelessly, sighing as Sanghyuk’s arm comes around him to pull him closer.

They’re stopped in an empty car park near a park that overlooks the river—one of Hakyeon’s favourite thinking spots. He used to come here when he was young and foolish and actually thought he’d make it as a writer, back when he was falling in and out of love so often that he never stopped writing. He still has his old journals, packed away in boxes somewhere, and for the first time in a long time he wants to pull them out to reread.

“You know, you never told me what you do for a living,” Sanghyuk points out, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

Hakyeon stares at the line of his throat as he speaks, trying to ignore the urge to kiss him there. “I’m a businessman,” he replies, because it’s vague enough to be both a valid answer and a way to dodge the question all at once. “Nothing interesting. It’s a lot of meetings.”

“That sounds like a cover story to me,” Sanghyuk says playfully, looking down at Hakyeon with a smile. “A car like this? You must be a crime lord or something.”

“A crime lord would be interesting. What I do isn’t,” Hakyeon protests, wrinkling his nose and finishing his hot chocolate with a swallow. He doesn’t miss Sanghyuk watching him as he licks his lips deliberately.

Slowly, as if Hakyeon is a rabid animal liable to spook at the slightest sharp movement, Sanghyuk reaches out a hand to brush Hakyeon’s hair out of his eyes—he’s always worn it slightly long, longer than he should considering his job—and then cup his cheek, his thumb skittering along the line of Hakyeon’s cheekbone. It’s intimate and familiar in a way it shouldn’t be considering they’re both strangers, but Hakyeon just does not have the energy to protest, not when he feels electric all over at the touch. For a moment, a fleeting moment, he lets himself consider— _what if?_ —before brushing the thought away to pull Sanghyuk in for a kiss.

It’s the answer to the question Hakyeon never even asked, because the hot chocolate is so sweet on Sanghyuk’s tongue and it’s such a balm to his soul. Sanghyuk’s reaching for him, pulling him closer, running his hands over Hakyeon’s back, shoulders, stomach, everywhere he can. They end up a tangle of limbs, mish-mashed together on the bonnet, and when Hakyeon pulls back he sees Sanghyuk watching him with awe written all over his face. It frightens him, that look, so he slips his hands underneath Sanghyuk’s shirt and leans down to kiss him again. He doesn’t want to think about the weight of that stare.

“Hyung,” Sanghyuk mumbles as he peels Hakyeon out of his jacket, peppering kisses down his jaw to nip lightly at his neck. “As much as I don’t want to stop, I don’t want to have sex on the bonnet of your car, either. For obvious reasons.”

“Get in the back, then,” Hakyeon whispers into his ear, winding his hand through Sanghyuk’s hair.

He knows they’re playing a dangerous game as they slide off the bonnet and slip into the backseat of the car—which is huge, thankfully—to just stare at each other for a moment. _What if, what if?_ It’s such a tempting question to ask, hanging in the air between them—because he doesn’t want to assume anything, but on the other hand, he has never felt like this with anyone before. Before he can ask, though, Sanghyuk slams into him again, fisting his hands in the fabric of Hakyeon’s shirt to yank it off. For a fleeting moment Hakyeon realises that he’s going to have to get driven to work in this car tomorrow, that Taekwoon’s going to have to sit here too, and the thought of that makes him smile as he kisses Sanghyuk again.

“You’re gorgeous,” Sanghyuk whispers, running a hand down Hakyeon’s chest to wrap around his waist, tugging him backwards. Hakyeon ends up propped up on an elbow, their faces close together, regarding Sanghyuk evenly as he tries to get his breathing under control.

“And _you_ —” he begins, plucking at the bottom of Sanghyuk’s shirt, “—are wearing too many layers for me to say the same.”

Wordlessly, Sanghyuk sits up. Hakyeon ends up sort of in his lap, his thighs either side of Sanghyuk’s, and it’s all he can do to watch as Sanghyuk shrugs his jacket off and pulls his shirt over his head. His body is well-defined, even in the low light like this, but most shocking of all are the tattoos that litter his skin, exposed under the moonlight filtering in through the window. His whole left arm is awash with a mass of black and grey lines that Hakyeon can’t discern, mirrored by the shadowy shape of waves on the inside of his bicep and the outline of what looks to be a snake on his ribs. He doesn’t know why he’s so shocked, really; Sanghyuk’s an artist, and arty people are the type to litter themselves with tattoos (perhaps it’s a little bit of jealousy, too, because he was never bold enough to get any even though he desperately ached for one when he was younger and had his head in the clouds). When Hakyeon lays his hands on Sanghyuk’s belly, wanting to touch, he can feel he’s trembling slightly. Sanghyuk raises an arm to reach for him and he sees a bandage wrapped around the middle of his right forearm, secured firmly. An injury? Another healing tattoo?

“Touch me,” Sanghyuk pleads, tugging at the waistband of Hakyeon’s jeans fervently.

That’s a command he simply cannot refuse, not when there’s so much flesh on display, not when they kiss and their chests touch and the heat of Sanghyuk’s skin sends his head reeling. “Tell me what you want,” he mutters between kisses, running his hand through Sanghyuk’s hair. It’s soft and fine beneath his fingers, and he can’t quite stop doing it. He is mesmerised.

Sanghyuk’s eyes nearly roll back in his head as Hakyeon palms his cock through his pants before thumbing open the button. “Hyung,” he whines, and it’s such a sweet sound.

“Not an answer,” Hakyeon reminds him, hooking his fingers under Sanghyuk’s waistband to tug his jeans off.

It’s hurried and quick, sharp movements that are jerky and tremulous, but it’s hard to be calm and smooth when he’s wreathed with so much lust it’s almost choking him. Before Sanghyuk can say another word, Hakyeon bends down and takes his cock into his mouth, watching the Sanghyuk’s back arch as his fingers scrabble on the leather. It’s been a while since he’s done this, so perhaps he’s not as polished as he should be, but Sanghyuk is thrusting up into his mouth and holding his head down, moaning reverently, so he supposes it doesn’t really matter. “Tell me what you want,” he says again, because he wants nothing more than to give Sanghyuk the world.

Sanghyuk’s fingers tighten in his hair almost painfully, but he doesn’t wince, just licks a slow stripe up Sanghyuk’s length. “I want you to, oh god, I want you to fuck me, _please_.” His words come out in a rush, and Hakyeon smirks at having this kind of affect on him.

His own dick is painfully hard in his jeans as he rocks back on his heels to stick his fingers in his mouth, sucking on them wantonly, making Sanghyuk groan loudly. Wrapping his other hand around Sanghyuk’s thigh, Hakyeon drags him down so he’s flat on his back, and then trails his finger between Sanghyuk’s legs, watching as he spreads them.

“Hyung!” Sanghyuk’s voice tips up an octave, and his flailing hands catch Hakyeon on the back of the head, dragging him in for a kiss. The want in his voice is transmitted in the way his lips move, the roughness of his breath, and when Hakyeon looks at him he thinks he’s never seen anything as beautiful before—not in all his years, not with all his wealth.

The little breathy noises Sanghyuk’s making are almost too much as Hakyeon fingers him, working him open, closing his other hand over Sanghyuk’s dick and jerking him off lazily. Part of him is still wondering what the fuck he’s doing, but he really doesn’t care, not when Sanghyuk’s eyes meet his and he feels something click into place.

His wallet is on the front passenger seat, so he leans over to grab it, fumbling for the condom and sachet of lube contained within and sticking them between his teeth as he yanks off his own jeans. Sanghyuk has a hand curled loosely around his cock, stroking it lazily, and his gaze is heavy as Hakyeon rolls the condom over his dick and shuffles forward.

“Oh,” he says as he pushes into Sanghyuk, feeling the younger man’s legs wrap around his waist, pulling them so they’re flush together. “ _Oh_.”

His thrusts are slow at first, because he doesn’t want to hurt Sanghyuk, and the angle is slightly awkward. But Sanghyuk catches his jaw and forces his head around, his eyes boring into Hakyeon’s own, his gaze fierce. “I won’t break.”

Sanghyuk’s so tight around him that all his self-control ebbs away rapidly, and soon he’s pinning Sanghyuk into the expensive leather, snapping his hips almost violently. It’s all hotness and slickness and soft sounds that he doesn’t even realise he’s making until they’re out, moans and words that are half-formed, rolling off his tongue as-is. Sanghyuk’s eyes are losing focus, and Hakyeon realises that like this, with Sanghyuk sweaty and with his hair sticking to his forehead, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, he hasn’t even _known_ what beauty means until now. Sanghyuk reaches towards him, but Hakyeon catches his arm, his hand wrapping around the bandage on his forearm—and Sanghyuk nearly bucks off the seat, his eyes rolling back with pleasure. He keens, he actually _keens_ , and it’s such a pretty noise that Hakyeon wonders what the fuck he did to eke that from him… and then sees his hand, covering the bandage on Sanghyuk’s arm, and shivers.

If he had to guess, he’d assume that’s where Sanghyuk’s mark is, and to test his theory grips a little tighter, squeezing a little harder. Sanghyuk’s other arm finds Hakyeon’s back and scratches him, a reward and a punishment all at once, but he doesn’t relent. This is taboo, deliciously so; it’s seen as dirty and illicit for others to touch your mark, and while there’s no direct skin contact it apparently doesn’t matter to Sanghyuk, who begs brokenly, although what he’s begging for Hakyeon has no idea. The sound of his voice, moaning and pleading, is such an exquisite noise that he moans, too, burying his head in Sanghyuk’s neck.

“I’m close,” Sanghyuk’s saying, shifting his hips upward to get friction on his dick as Hakyeon fucks into him.

Hakyeon is, too, but he somehow doesn’t want this to end, not ever. His orgasm is building, low in his belly and in his thighs, and he feels so damn electric that he swears they’re going to spark into flames, the two of them. He lets his hand slip away from Sanghyuk’s bandage, hears him gasp for air, and then he’s capturing Hakyeon’s lips in a kiss that’s hungry, passionate, desperate. That desperation colours everything, and when Sanghyuk thrusts his hips upward and comes on himself with a whimper, Hakyeon forces himself to keep his eyes open, to watch every change in his facial expression. He memorises it to heart, all of it, because he knows that even if Sanghyuk wants nothing to do with him after all of this he will never be able to forget.

“Come for me, Hakyeon hyung,” Sanghyuk mumbles, wrapping his arms around Hakyeon to hold him close. “Please.”

The sound of Sanghyuk saying his name, so deep and gravelly and fucked-out, sends him spiralling over the edge, and with a groan he comes, fucking into Sanghyuk over and over. It’s raw and primal, and everything he never knew he needed, and he’s sure he sees stars swimming in front of his eyes when he looks at Sanghyuk. This is all he needs, this is all he’ll ever need, and the _what if_ from earlier somehow coalesces into being, more present than ever before. For as long as he can remember, his mark has been an annoyance—something he had to always cover when out in public, so as not to be impolite—and then, as he got older and richer, a liability. They’ve all heard the horror stories about people faking their marks to snag a rich partner, so it was just easier if he stayed away from all of that entirely. And as his life slowly changed from shaping other’s passions to sucking up to Seoul’s elite, he hadn’t wanted to find love. The change from passion to apathy had come upon him so slowly he hadn’t even noticed it… but now? He has never felt like this about anyone before, and as he presses a gentle, soft kiss to Sanghyuk’s neck, it’s like a door has been opened and he sees all the possibilities stretched out in front of him, in front of _them_.

They lie there like that for god knows how long. Hakyeon’s aware that their sweat is cooling, and that Sanghyuk’s come is stuck to them both, but he’s too tired to move. Besides, Sanghyuk’s still holding him close and stroking his hair softly, and it’s such a nice sensation that he doesn’t want to move. When he eventually does pull back, Sanghyuk’s looking at him the same way he was before, like Hakyeon is something he’s never seen before and doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“We steamed up the windows,” he whispers, because they have and because his brain is struggling to work properly when Sanghyuk is looking at him like _that_.

“Yeah,” Sanghyuk says after a pause, twisting his hands through Hakyeon’s hair gently.

All of a sudden it’s awkward between them, and Hakyeon sits up and puts space between them to try and remedy it, reaching for his clothes and cleaning himself up like that can help. Sanghyuk’s blatant openness from just a few moments ago is gone. A wall has been slammed shut between them, and Hakyeon has no idea where to begin breaching it, or even how. It hurts, even though it shouldn’t, even though they’re still nothing but two strangers who’ve come together in the night for something that doesn’t seem to mean anything at all. They get dressed in complete silence, Sanghyuk stubbornly refusing to look Hakyeon in the eyes, and he can’t stand it.

“Are you okay?” he asks, daring to reach across the gulf between them to take Sanghyuk’s hand.

The smile that Sanghyuk wears now is wobbly, nothing like the grin he’d had when he’d first seen Hakyeon, but it’s a start so he takes it as a good sign. “Yeah,” he says again, but he squeezes Hakyeon’s hand, and a weight lifts off his shoulders. “I’m fine. Are _you_ okay?”

Emboldened by the touch, Hakyeon leans across the seat to kiss Sanghyuk—but it’s a soft, chaste thing, gentle and easy, and it feels so natural that he smiles when Sanghyuk kisses him back. “Never been better,” he whispers against Sanghyuk’s lips, and he means it. He’s just fucked a complete stranger in the backseat of his car and he has never felt as happy as he does now. “What do you want to do now? I can drive you back to yours… or you could come round to mine.”

When he pulls back, he can see that Sanghyuk is warring with himself, although he’s not sure why. This could be easy, if he let it. There’s nothing stopping them from just letting things run their course and seeing where they end up—for the first time in a very long time, Hakyeon thinks he’s found someone worth risking it all for. But Sanghyuk’s silent for a while, almost like he’s wrestling with some decision, and when he finally looks up at Hakyeon he cannot read the expression in his eyes. “My place is kind of… Um… I live with friends, so it’s kind of a hovel at the moment…” At Hakyeon’s raised eyebrow, he runs a hand through his hair and winces. “Alright, it’s kind of a hovel always. But your place sounds nice. If you want.”

It’s a tentative yes, but at least it’s a yes, so Hakyeon grins as he turns around to open the door. The night air is cool on his face as he slides out of the car and stretches, staring at the river glittering away underneath them. His jacket is still on the bonnet, and Sanghyuk’s is still on the back seat, so when he looks across at Sanghyuk he sees him tightening the bandage around his arm, tucking the end under tightly before running his hand across it as if to make sure it’s secure. Hakyeon’s hand automatically falls to fiddle with his watch, adjusting the band, and he bites his lip as Sanghyuk watches him.

“Okay,” he begins after getting in the car, opening the centre console and fishing out the aux cord he so rarely uses, thrusting it at Sanghyuk. “You’re the DJ. Hit me with your best.”

Sanghyuk snorts, but takes the cord anyway. “You’re going to regret that,” he warns, but Hakyeon doesn’t think he can regret anything with Sanghyuk involved, even bad music.

Gravel sprays under the wheels of the Rolls as he peels out of the carpark, shifting up aggressively to hear the car rev its engine. He so rarely gets to drive these days, which is a pity because he really enjoys it. It’s also a perverse kind of way of showing off for Sanghyuk. He doesn’t know if it’s working, of course, but it’s still worth a try.

A rap song starts playing out of the speakers, and Hakyeon raises an eyebrow. That’s not what he would have picked, or thought Sanghyuk would pick—inwardly he tells himself to stop making assumptions because he is _still a stranger_ —but he bobs his head anyway. He usually listens to classical music, or whatever Jaehwan tends to put on, which is whatever’s in the charts, but this is different; rough, choppy, with a beat that’s addictive. When the rapper starts rapping, he’s taken aback by his gravelly voice and flow that rides the beat like nothing he’s heard before.

“Your friend?” he asks, because Sanghyuk had mentioned someone he wrote lyrics for. Considering he also said poetry, though, Hakyeon’d sort of expected the lyrics to be for a ballad; rap music isn’t what he would have picked.

Sanghyuk nods. “Yeah. I didn’t write this track. I’ve only written a couple for him, when he asks. Which isn’t often. He’s kind of… Hang on. My ass is vibrating.” He grimaces and lifts off the seat, fishing out Hakyeon’s phone from where it lays underneath him, his eyes lighting up as he sees the messages. “Woah. Someone’s popular. Who’s Jaehwan?”

Hakyeon winces, and makes a swipe for the phone, but Sanghyuk dodges it easily. The playful, flirty expression on his face from earlier is back, though, so Hakyeon doesn’t protest too hard. “Um, don’t read those. You might need eye bleach.”

“Ooh, there’s a lot from Jaehwan. What did you tell him about me?” Sanghyuk raises his eyebrows as he keeps scrolling. “‘Tell me what’s happening hyung!!!!!!!’ Complete with a bunch of exclamation marks. ‘Don’t leave me in the dark!!!! Did you fuck him yet?’ Oh, and there’s one from someone called Taekwoon, too—”

His face flushed with embarrassment, Hakyeon makes another grab for the phone, this time successful, and shoves it between his legs. “I told you. Eye bleach. Erase everything you just read,” he says, waving a hand in his air like he can erase Sanghyuk’s memories, too.

For a moment, Sanghyuk just regards him, his face lit intermittently by streetlights as they drive along. “You’re pretty when you blush,” he tells Hakyeon, before settling back in his seat, looking decidedly smug.

Hakyeon is stunned into silence at that. Words are very hard to form when he looks across at Sanghyuk, smirking out the window like he knows what he’s done to Hakyeon. And he probably does; the blush doesn’t go away until he’s pulled into his garage, switching off the ignition and resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands. When he glances at Sanghyuk, though, he can tell something’s up—he’s gone about three shades paler than he was before, and his fingers are clenched around his phone like it’s a lifeline.

“Are these all your cars?” he asks quietly as he gets out of the car, peering around the garage worriedly.

Ah. Hakyeon has been wealthy for so long that he’s forgotten what it’s like to not be surrounded by money, and if he had to guess, he’d assume that’s what’s spooked Sanghyuk. “Just these four,” he replies, gesturing to the others with a wave of his hand. He doesn’t mean to be dismissive, but he didn’t bring Sanghyuk here to ogle at his cars.

The silence stretches between them again as they get the lift up to Hakyeon’s (penthouse) apartment, and by the time the doors finally open he feels itchy all over. He doesn’t think it was a mistake bringing Sanghyuk back here, not really, but things are off between them again and the friendly, flirty camaraderie they had in the car has evaporated once more. “Welcome,” he says, because he thinks that saying _welcome to my humble abode_ is just rubbing it in. “Do you want a drink?”

Sanghyuk makes a beeline for the piano, trailing his hand over the lid before lifting it to stare in awe at the keys. “No, I’m good,” he murmurs, playing a high C.

 _yes I fucked him and now he’s at my place and it’s awkward and I dont know what to do_ , he texts to Jaehwan as he heads towards the kitchen. _Jaehwan help what do I do now_

The text comes as he’s on his second glass of water, staring at the fridge as the faint sounds of halting music comes from his living room. _fuck him again!!!!!!!! u cant be awkward with ur dick out_ , is Jaehwan’s reply, so Hakyeon puts his phone down and steels himself. It’s sound advice, even if it’s delivered in typical brusque Jaehwan fashion—and anyway, he has no reason to be nervous. It’s just Sanghyuk, for god's sake; Hakyeon doesn’t know him well but he’s probably the least threatening person he’s ever met. It’s only as awkward as he makes it, so it’s with a renewed pep in his step that he heads into his living room and slides onto the piano bench next to Sanghyuk, pressing their thighs together. “You play?”

Sanghyuk shakes his head with a small smile. “Not really. I had lessons when I was a kid, but I could never get the hang of it. Wasn’t for want of trying, though.”

Carefully, Hakyeon takes Sanghyuk’s hand in his own, pressing their palms together as a size comparison. “Your hands are certainly big enough,” he says, and then because he’s feeling bold, raises his eyebrows sleazily to add, “that’s not the only thing that’s big, either.”

“Oh my god!” Sanghyuk bursts out laughing so hard he rocks backwards off the bench, saved only by Hakyeon holding onto him. “That’s gross, hyung.”

Gross and cheesy, yes, but at least now Sanghyuk’s looking at him like he’s a person (rather than a walking stack of money) again. Like this, with his eyes scrunched into nothing and his hair falling in his eyes, Sanghyuk looks at home once more, and Hakyeon thinks _I could get used to this_ —but then he’s thinking of nothing at all, because Sanghyuk leans in to kiss him, apropos of nothing.

“Not here, hyung.” Sanghyuk’s voice is strained as Hakyeon kisses down his neck, peeling aside the collar of his shirt to get at his collarbone. “It’s a nice piano. I’d rather not ruin it.”

Begrudgingly, Hakyeon pulls away, taking Sanghyuk’s hand and tugging him off the piano and up the stairs, into his bedroom. “I’m sensing a pattern here,” he teases, whirling Sanghyuk around to push him down on the bed. “First not the bonnet, now not the piano… Is nowhere good enough for you?”

He means it as a joke, but Sanghyuk slides a hand to cup the back of Hakyeon’s neck and tugs him closer, and his voice is deadly serious as he says, “Here is perfectly fine.”

They peel each other out of their clothes slowly, taking their time; the furious rush from the car has faded, and now Sanghyuk reaches for him lazily, his touches unhurried and gentle. The moonlight is streaming in through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, lighting his face from the side in a way that makes him look almost ethereal and otherworldly. Like this, Hakyeon can get a better look at his tattoos; his whole left arm is painted with what look to be chrysanthemums, ringed by patterns and swirls made of black ink. On his ribs the snake glares balefully upwards—but it’s cut in half, twice, each part separated by flowers growing out of its body. The piece on his right arm looks to be a wave, sketched out delicately. Hakyeon almost doesn’t know where to look. He wants to ask about them, wants to pick Sanghyuk apart at the seams and understand—but then his gaze falls on the bandage, wrapped neatly around the middle of his forearm, and they both shiver as he meets Sanghyuk’s eyes, leaning down to kiss him. When his hair falls in his face, Hakyeon brushes it away, and the look that Sanghyuk gives him nearly chills him to the bone. He isn’t one to put all his stock in fate—as much as the soulmarks would like him to—but he can’t help feeling that this is _right_ , it’s just right, and there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

Sanghyuk pins him down on the bed and nips at his neck, his earlobe, grinding their hips together instead of giving Hakyeon proper release. It drives Hakyeon mad, deliciously slow, and when Sanghyuk finally releases his wrists Hakyeon curls a hand on his thighs, needing to touch. He fumbles for the lube when Sanghyuk asks—he keeps a bottle in his bedside table, along with condoms, although god knows why because they rarely get used—and stares in awe as Sanghyuk slides two fingers inside himself, splaying a hand on Hakyeon’s chest for leverage. There’s no noise at all except the sound of slick wetness as Sanghyuk fingers himself and Hakyeon’s own rattling breaths. When Sanghyuk lowers himself onto Hakyeon’s cock, he arches his back in such a way that Hakyeon suddenly wants to write, wants to put into words the gorgeous curve of his hip, the shadowy stains of ink on his skin, the lines of his throat, all bathed in the pale milky light of the moon—and that’s not something he’s felt in a long time.

“Hyung,” Sanghyuk whines, meeting Hakyeon’s eyes and catching his wrist. “Please.”

Hakyeon doesn’t know what he’s asking for, doesn’t know what he can give him, until Sanghyuk, moving slowly, slides their palms together and kisses his way down Hakyeon’s wrist. He looks up as his lips find the spot just beneath his watch band, and without warning bites down, his fingers digging in to Hakyeon’s flesh.

The wave of pleasure that shoots through him at that is astonishing in its breadth and depth—he has never felt anything like it, and when he whimpers with need he hears Sanghyuk’s breath hitch. His mark feels like it’s on fire, his whole arm is tingling, and all he wants is more. Illicit, it’s taboo and slightly dirty, which makes it all the more hotter when Sanghyuk wraps Hakyeon’s hand around the bandage on his own forearm, tipping his head back and moaning.

They come together, Hakyeon’s fingers digging into Sanghyuk’s arm, no noise between them except a gasp from Sanghyuk and an exhale from Hakyeon. The simplicity of what they are, despite being strangers, is beautiful in an odd way, and when Sanghyuk collapses on the bed next to him Hakyeon reaches out to stroke his face, his mouth open in wonderment like an afterthought.

“Stay?” he whispers, and he deliberately doesn’t specify for how long because he’s sort of afraid it might turn into _stay, forever_ and the fact that he’s even thinking that frightens him.

Sanghyuk closes his eyes for a moment and turns his face into Hakyeon’s hand like a flower towards the sun. “Sure,” he replies, and Hakyeon can tell it takes a lot for him to concede like that.

The last thing he feels before he drifts off to sleep is Sanghyuk pressing a kiss to his shoulder, his lips soft and forgiving, and with that he lets go.

*******

The first thing that makes Sanghyuk realise something’s wrong is that he’s lying in a patch of direct sunlight. When he tries to roll over to avoid it—figuring Hongbin has come in and opened his blinds in a cruel attempt to get him out of bed before midday—he bangs into a warm body in bed with him, and that’s the second thing that makes him realise something’s wrong.

It, of course, all comes rushing back to him, as much as he wishes it wouldn’t—meeting Hakyeon, fucking Hakyeon in his ridiculously expensive car, fucking Hakyeon in his ridiculously expensive apartment, the way it’d felt when Hakyeon touched his mark… His head swims with the memories, and when he opens his eyes to see Hakyeon sleeping soundly next to him, his first instinct is to reach out and touch, to stroke his cheek, which is exactly why he knows why something is wrong.

He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, reaching for his phone and unlocking it to see the time. Eight in the morning, a god-awful time for anyone to be up. He really should roll over and go back to sleep, because he knows if he does that Hakyeon will automatically reach for him and the thought of being pressed up against him again is really, really nice.

Instead of doing that, though, he slides out of bed carefully and reaches for his clothes, lying discarded on the floor. There’s a nasty, snarled-up feeling in his stomach that he doesn’t really want to identify right now, especially because there’s a niggling voice telling him that he shouldn’t have done this, _again_ , that he shouldn’t have gotten attached because look how well it worked out last time.

 _This is different_ , he allows himself to think for a moment, staring down at Hakyeon. His golden skin looks so luminous against the white of his sheets, so much so that he is practically glowing in the sunlight. Without thinking, Sanghyuk reaches out to stroke his arm, revelling at how smooth his skin is. His fingers itch with the urge to write, stronger than it’s ever been in a while, and he can’t stop himself from smiling as Hakyeon rolls over and murmurs something under his breath. Then the face of his watch catches the light, and Sanghyuk snatches his hand away like he’s been burned, because he cannot do this again. He will _not_ do this again. He doesn’t have enough love left in him to give, anymore, and just because Hakyeon is quite possibly the most beautiful man he’s ever seen doesn’t mean jack shit when Sanghyuk is used up and empty. And that’s not even touching the fact that Sanghyuk, quite patently, does not belong in Hakyeon’s life, not when everything he owns is dripping with such opulence it nearly hurts Sanghyuk’s eyes to look at. Hakyeon won’t even open up and tell the truth about what it is he does to earn all of this; how can Sanghyuk get involved in that?

“Sanghyuk?” Hakyeon mumbles sleepily, and instead of replying Sanghyuk grits his teeth and fishes in his jacket for his little journal that he takes with him everywhere he goes.

His words are so inadequate, just as they’ve always been, but they all he has to give, so he bends his head to the piece of paper. _thanks for the hot chocolate_ , he writes. and everything else. _you’ve got my number, call me._ He pauses for a moment, hesitating, and then stares at Hakyeon’s back when he rolls over and flings a hand out across the bed. _moonlight becomes him / sunlight consumes him,_ he adds, the words coming to him as naturally as breathing, before tearing the paper out and leaving it on the pillow next to Hakyeon. He tries to ignore how flushed his face is as he leaves, making his way back through the ridiculously oversized apartment to the lift, but it’s very hard to pretend that he doesn’t feel vaguely sick at running like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here](https://hakyeonni.livejournal.com/5288.html) is the relevant post from my livejournal of pics of sanghyuk's tattoos!
> 
> hope you're enjoying so far!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s true, he realises; his place is not with Hakyeon, will never be, as much as part of him wishes it was.

By the time he gets home, he’s gone through another six pages in his journal, having filled them up with line after line after line as he scribbled away furiously on the bus. He’d covered everything from Hakyeon’s lips to his hair to the way his skin had caught the light, and at the end his hand is cramping and he wants to fling his journal across the room. He refrains, however, because when he lets himself into his apartment he finds Hongbin sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal. “The prodigal son returns!” he crows, dropping his spoon into his bowl and throwing both hands in the air like Sanghyuk’s done something momentous. “Finally. I thought you’d been abducted.”

“Very funny,” Sanghyuk replies dryly, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack.

What he really wants to do is get back into bed and continue sleeping. In fact, that’s exactly what he _tries_ to do; he only makes it as far as the hall before Wonshik emerges from his room, his hair sticking up every-which-way, and pushes him back towards the living room. “You’re not getting out of it that easily,” he mumbles, ignoring the way Sanghyuk flails.

“Alright. What do you want to know?” He folds his arms over his chest and regards the two of them evenly. It’s futile to protest further, because he knows what the both of them are like when they get determined.

Hongbin’s dressed for uni, which means he looks vaguely presentable. Wonshik, on the other hand, is wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, his numerous tattoos visible as he bends down to get milk from the fridge. The way his hand is on the door, Sanghyuk can see his mark, standing out on the inside of his wrist, and he looks at the ground resolutely. He really, really doesn’t want to think about marks right now.

“What happened,” Hongbin points out, stretching back in his chair. “You’ve been obsessed with this guy for the past, what, two weeks? Three? And then you go and meet him, stay the night, and expect you can just slide past us?” He shakes his head resignedly, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with Sanghyuk. “You never stay the night when you sleep around. Tell us.”

Wonshik comes up beside Hongbin and pats him on the head, the touch half-hearted and instinctual rather than deliberate. Just like any other matched couple, Wonshik and Hongbin are constantly in each other’s orbits; the way they move around each other is almost like they are always aware of where the other is, not even consciously. They don’t have to think about being without each other, because they never are, and they never have been—everyone knew they’d be matched long before they got their marks. Maybe it would be easy for Sanghyuk to feel like a third wheel, but he never has. Their friendship just doesn’t work like that.

“We fucked, obviously,” he states, because maybe being blatant will get them off his case. “It was nice. He’s really… nice.” Nice is an understatement, but they don’t need to know that.

“Nice,” Wonshik deadpans, raising his eyebrows. “Just nice. What aren’t you telling us?”

He sighs, twisting his fingers together. “He’s also rich. Not just well-off. I’m talking ‘penthouse apartment in Gangnam’ rich. ‘Has four supercars’ rich. He wouldn’t tell me what he did, either.”

“So?” Hongbin shovels another spoonful of cereal in his mouth and chews with his mouth open. “Why does that matter?”

“So, we’re two very different people. So, he was a rebound fuck. So, it’s over and done with,” Sanghyuk finishes, spinning on his heel and stomping to his room.

If it sounds like he is trying to convince himself as well as them, maybe it’s because he is. Everything in him is screaming that this is a bad idea—he’s still mourning Soomin, for fuck’s sake, can’t walk past the coffee shop where she works without feeling sick to his stomach, without thinking of her mark. How many times will he get his heart broken before he decides that this time is the last? He can’t do it anymore, he just _can’t_ , and the fact that he and Hakyeon are from two completely different worlds is just the final nail in the coffin. It was great sex—fantastic sex, the best sex he’s ever had, if he’s honest—but it’s over and done with now, and that’s the way it will stay.

He scrubs himself raw in the shower until he’s sure that no trace of Hakyeon remains, deliberately humming loudly to himself to try and distract himself from thinking of Hakyeon’s smile, from thinking about his body, from thinking about the way he’d looked at Sanghyuk like he wasn’t sure he was _real_. He certainly doesn’t think about all the words in his journal, and he doesn’t think about the way his hands itch to write more whenever he pictures Hakyeon in his head. He thinks about exactly nothing at all right up until the moment he collapses into his own bed—the blinds tightly shut this time—and falls asleep, his fingers winding in the sheets, part of him wishing he was somewhere else.

*******

“Wake up.”

Sanghyuk does, only because Wonshik’s voice is commanding and also _right in his ear_ , and he struggles upright, having half a mind to tell him to fuck off. “What time is it?”

“Four. You slept the whole day.”

At that, he sits up properly, opening his eyes in a deliberate attempt to wake himself up. “What the fuck? And you _let_ me?”

Wonshik throws his arms in the air melodramatically. He’s wearing black skinny jeans paired with a black t-shirt, and Sanghyuk winces. Work uniform. “Far be it from me to interrupt the rest of the heartbroken. You needed the sleep. But we have work in an hour.”

Groaning, Sanghyuk flops back on the pillows, reaching for the blankets—but Wonshik is too fast, and wrenches them off the bed entirely, grinning widely. “Can’t I call in sick?” he pleads, pulling a pillow over his head only to have Wonshik yank that away too. “Jiho will understand.”

“Jiho will _not_ understand. You’ve called in for your last few shifts. You know he’s understaffed. Come on.” Wonshik bashes Sanghyuk lightly over the head with the pillow before walking out of the room, leaving the door open behind him, warbling loudly and off-key at the top of his lungs.

Sanghyuk sometimes wonders that if being matched makes Wonshik feel like he has to mother him—he and Hongbin have been doing it, in differing doses, for as long as Sanghyuk can remember. And it’s so hard to argue because he knows Wonshik is right; spending his time alone in his room, going through bottles of vodka and packs of cigarettes and journal after journal of poems, isn’t healthy. But neither is being sober and being haunted by memories of Soomin, whom he sees everywhere he goes. Her perfume still lies on top of his dresser because he cannot bear to throw it out; her toothbrush still languishes in the bathroom for the same reason. It’s been weeks, and Sanghyuk still can’t stop picturing her whenever he closes his eyes. And before her there was Youngjae, whose mark hadn’t matched either—that had hurt so bad Sanghyuk still winces whenever he thinks of his face. And before him was Hyejin, who had sobbed brokenly when she’d stared at Sanghyuk’s mark on his arm. It just seems to be an endless cycle, doomed to repeat over and over again—what’s the point?

Except now, when he rolls over and flings a hand over his eyes—ignoring the sounds of Wonshik in the hall outside—it’s Hakyeon’s face that he sees, smoothed out in sleep, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Coming,” he calls to Wonshik, launching himself out of bed violently. At least work will be a distraction. He really does not want to think about Hakyeon at all.

*******

They catch the bus to work, because Hongbin’s taken the car to uni—a clapped out old Jeep that only runs because Wonshik spends hours under the bonnet swearing and hitting things—and they can’t afford a taxi. It’s Sanghyuk’s turn to buy groceries, he knows, but he also knows that his bank account has a grand total of eight bucks in it, which is only really good for a couple of packets of ramen. Yet another reason it’s probably a good idea that he’s looking forward to going into work, even if it does mean facing Jiho’s ire.

“Oh, wow. Sanghyuk has decided to show,” Jiho drones sarcastically the moment they walk in. Sanghyuk nearly turns back around, stopped only by Wonshik curling an arm around his shoulders and forcing him forward again. “I didn’t realise you were still on my payroll, since you seem to think turning up to work is optional.”

“Sorry, hyung,” Sanghyuk mutters, trying to tamp down the flush that’s stubbornly creeping its way up his neck. He comes around behind the bar and butts Jiho gently away from the clean glasses, picking up a rag. “Been sick.”

For a moment Sanghyuk thinks he’s going to get one of Jiho’s legendary lectures—with how long he’s been working here, he’s been on the receiving end of a few—but then Jiho just shrugs, clapping Sanghyuk on the shoulder heartily. “Don’t keep pulling this shit, Sanghyuk,” he sighs. “I don’t want to fire you.”

It’s five, which means the little bar is starting to fill up with office workers having a beer after work, so Sanghyuk pulls his apron on and gets to work. He knows the back of the bar like the back of his hand, now, and soon he settles into an easy rhythm of pouring beers and soju, joking with customers, and jamming along to the music that Jiho blasts through the speakers. His job is just a way to pass the time and pay the bills, usually, but now it’s a welcome distraction and by the time three hours have passed his mood has lifted substantially.

“You’re looking brighter,” Wonshik murmurs when there’s a quiet moment, staring out at the patrons and sipping on a glass of water.

Sanghyuk shrugs. “It’s hard to be miserable doing this.”

Wonshik turns to look at him, and Sanghyuk meets his gaze. There’s a pause, where Wonshik is assessing, and then he shrugs. “You coming to my show next week?”

“Are you kidding?” Sanghyuk elbows him in the side, grinning a wide smile that’s only half-forced. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m Ravi’s biggest fan.”

“I think Hongbin would have a few words to say about that,” Wonshik mutters in reply, before stepping up to the bar to serve a customer with a grin.

It’s a running joke that out of the three of them it’s patently obvious that Hongbin is the only one who is going to make something of himself. Sanghyuk’s been sending poetry to publishing houses for years (and collecting rejection letters for just as long as a result), and Wonshik’s rapping hasn’t netted him much money (or a record deal) either. Hongbin, on the other hand, is studying an MBA with goals to work his way up to be a CEO of a company, although he hasn’t decided which one yet. Unless a miracle happens, Hongbin will be the one driving their little group towards success, with Wonshik and Sanghyuk clinging desperately onto his coattails. It’s not exactly an inspiring life, but it gives the other two a sort of freedom to do what they like—hence why they’re both littered with tattoos, figuring they’ll either both make it big or be relegated to being Hongbin’s assistants.

“You should invite Hakyeon,” Wonshik says mildly as he passes Sanghyuk a while later, reaching for a bottle of vodka.

Sanghyuk nearly drops the glass he’s cleaning. “Why would I do that?” he hisses, glaring at Wonshik’s retreating back.

It’s another five minutes before there’s a lull long enough for Wonshik to reply. “Because you’re clearly smitten, and I think it would be _nice_.” He says this slowly, like Sanghyuk is incapable of understanding. “Rebound or not, everything you’ve told me about him makes him sound pretty cool. I think it would be fun. Hongbin and I want to meet him, anyway.”

What, exactly, Sanghyuk has told Wonshik about Hakyeon is little. Wonshik has just figured out the rest through being observant, and by knowing Sanghyuk as well as he does. The morning after that first phone call, where Sanghyuk had been completely sure he was speaking to Wonshik (who was staying over at a friend’s that night) as he sat at his desk, staring out the window, had been very confusing indeed. He’d eventually made his way into bed, and when he woke up at midday the next day he’d stared at the unknown number in his call log until the digits swam in his vision. Wonshik had laughed about it when Sanghyuk had told him, even though there was something niggling at the back of his mind about the stranger’s voice, how soothing it was… And then his phone had rung again, and it had been the stranger, worried about _him_ , and that cemented it. For the next three weeks, as he cried and cried and cried until his tear ducts practically dried up, his mind had kept straying to the stranger, Hakyeon, how concerned he’d been when he didn’t have to be. Sanghyuk had called again, eventually, when he was drunk because being drunk was easier, and he’d listened to Hakyeon talk to him about the river as he fell backwards into sleep.

And now look where they are.

“I think that would be a terrifically bad idea,” he declares as Wonshik comes up next to him, shaking a cocktail shaker furiously. “I can’t even begin to describe how rich he is, hyung. He’s probably never even _been_ to a gig like yours before.”

“Why do you care so much about how rich he is?” Wonshik says exasperatedly, pouring the cocktail into a glass and pushing it across the bar at the customer. “It’s just money, Sanghyuk. It doesn’t have anything to do with his character.”

Easy for Wonshik to say, who grew up relatively middle-class, and who slums with them out of choice. Easy for Hongbin to say, who will almost certainly get a job good enough to propel them out of the shithole they’re living in currently. But Sanghyuk’s parents pinched and scraped all through his childhood. Luxuries were something his friends had, not something he was ever allowed. The whole family had cried when Sanghyuk’s older sister got into university on a scholarship (the same scholarship that Sanghyuk had applied, and got rejected, for). He knows nothing about money because he has never had much of it. And it’s not that he’s bitter, because he’s long since accepted the fact that he’ll probably be working as a bartender for the next however many years until he gets fired or gets his big break; it’s just that he and Hakyeon come from such different worlds they have absolutely nothing in common. Not to mention Sanghyuk doesn’t even know what Hakyeon does, and he’s too scared to google him in case he finds out the truth—he’d said a businessman, but what kind of businessman earns _that_ much? Surely he must be a CEO of a chaebol, or a mafia man, or a contract killer for all Sanghyuk knows. None of those professions are anything he’s ever desired for himself or even paid attention to at all.

The rest of the night passes in a blur. It’s a weeknight—thankfully—which means they close at 11, and by 11:30 everything's packed up and clean.

“Can you pay me for this shift in advance?” Sanghyuk’s standing in the doorway to Jiho’s tiny little office that’s more of a cupboard than anything else. “And by advance I mean in cash, right now?”

Jiho looks up from his paperwork and raises an eyebrow. He likes to wear his bleached blonde hair long and wavy, which does nothing to soften his overall aesthetic, considering he has more tattoos than Wonshik and Sanghyuk combined and a penchant for wearing all black no matter the occasion (it’s probably what inspired their work uniform, actually—Sanghyuk’s currently wearing his black converse, black jeans, and a loose black t-shirt, complete with bandage around his forearm). Despite Jiho’s tough exterior, he’s really a softy on the inside—not that Sanghyuk would ever say that to his face. At his words, Jiho frowns, but it’s one of concern. “Are things tight again?”

“Yeah,” Sanghyuk replies quietly, fiddling with a thread on the hem of his shirt.

Jiho knows all about his money troubles, and can identify with them somewhat—for the first few years of the bar’s existence he was losing money hand over fist. It’s only recently started breaking even, which means Jiho’s a lot less stressed, and a lot more likely to overlook Sanghyuk sneaking spare bottles of vodka home after a shift. “Sure,” he says, and fishes for his keys in his pocket to open the cash box. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and then opens it once more, almost like he’s deliberating with himself on what to say. “Is this about Soomin? Did you guys break up?”

Automatically, Sanghyuk’s hand falls to the bandage on his arm, and he smooths the fabric over, checks that the end is tucked in securely. It’s a muscle memory now, one he’s been doing since his mark first appeared eight years ago, one he suspects he’ll be doing for a while yet. “Yeah, we did,” he replies, trying to keep his voice even. “We didn’t match.”

Looking up from where he’s counting out notes into a pile, Jiho keeps his face deliberately blank—but when he speaks, his voice is soft. “Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright. I’ll get over it. It’s just one of those things.” Sanghyuk raises one shoulder in a shrug as Jiho hands him the money. “Thanks. I’m working Saturday, yeah?”

Nodding, Jiho turns back to his paperwork. It’s a confirmation and a dismissal all at once, so he pockets the money and heads back out to the bar, slapping Wonshik on the back as he goes. They spill out into the cool air together, wrapping their arms around themselves as they head towards the bus stop. When Sanghyuk looks up, he can see the sky is clear and the stars are twinkling down towards them, the moon hanging low and swollen. The sight of it—of both the moon and the stars—sends a shiver down his spine, makes him think of Hakyeon, of Hakyeon’s lips for some inexplicable reason. He clenches his fingers on his arms, resisting the urge to head back inside and get a napkin and a pen to write down the words that suddenly come to him: _to touch is to have / my place is not with you_. It’s true, he realises; his place is not with Hakyeon, will never be, as much as part of him wishes it was.

When he looks to the side he sees Wonshik is watching him, his eyes narrowed, and he looks at the ground instead of facing the weight of that stare. He knows what Wonshik is trying to say. “I won’t invite him,” he says, but it’s faint, and sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

The bus goes sailing past them at that, so wordlessly they start to sprint for it, waving and hollering like madmen. Wonshik doesn’t reply until they’re seated on it, huffing and puffing like they’ve run a marathon, squashed in a seat together. “I think you should be more open-minded,” he replies, although he doesn’t clarify as to what about and Sanghyuk doesn’t ask.

Hongbin’s waiting up for them when they get home, curled up on the sofa watching TV, and Sanghyuk flops down next to him to lean his head on the older man’s shoulder. There’s some girl group on screen, singing and dancing, and Sanghyuk closes his eyes as Hongbin puts an arm around him and pulls him closer. “How was work?”

“It was okay,” he murmurs, burrowing closer. When he opens his eyes, he sees Hongbin’s mark on his ankle, and next to it, his own bandaged arm. “Jiho paid me in advance. I’ll go grocery shopping tomorrow.”

Hongbin drops a kiss on the top of his head, and Sanghyuk sighs happily. “There’s no hurry,” he says, but Sanghyuk knows that’s a lie. The fridge and cupboards are looking very bare indeed.

Slowly, because he’s not used to seven hour shifts after having a few weeks off, he clambers off the lounge and heads to the bathroom, undressing slowly and leaving his bandage til last. When he unrolls it, he stares in the mirror at his mark, running his fingers over it slowly. It stands out against his skin, different, somehow, to the tattoos he’d gotten in a somewhat desperate attempt to make it feel as inconspicuous as possible (it hadn’t worked, not really). It’s weirdly sensitive—apparently everyone’s is—and it tickles, but still he keeps doing it, tracing the curves of it, the delicate lines. He’s long since memorised its pattern; he can draw it from memory, now, after so long of staring at it. A lot of people think the marks are a blessing, but he is starting to think they’re a curse. Why else would they cause so much heartbreak?

He ignores Wonshik banging on the door as he showers—“Sanghyuk don’t use all the hot water please I’m begging you”—and takes the time to wash his hair, too, leaving the shower smelling and feeling fresh. The moment he opens the door, a towel wrapped around his waist, Wonshik bursts in. Sanghyuk goes to shove him away, but Wonshik dodges expertly, grinning widely.

“Is that a new tat?” Sanghyuk asks, snagging Wonshik’s wrist and bringing it to his face to inspect.

Wonshik waggles his eyebrows salaciously and pulls his wrist away. “Yeah. Got it when you were in the midst of your depression. I can’t believe it took you this long to notice.”

Sanghyuk rolls his eyes and shoulders past him. “How the fuck am I meant to notice when you’re covered with them?” he calls back over his shoulder, leaping forward as Wonshik turns around to smack him playfully.

At this point Wonshik has so many tattoos that his fans like to guess which of them is his mark—so far the consensus seems to be that it’s the rune on his bicep, which is so far from being right it’s almost amusing. The more tattoos he gets, the more wild the guesses get, and this new rune on his wrist will probably make people even more confused. Sanghyuk likes reading the theories on naver when he gets bored, although Hongbin doesn’t think they’re as funny.

He dresses slowly, not bothering with wrapping his mark back up since he’s not going anywhere, and picks up his phone from where he’d left it on his bedside table. A notification from instagram, of someone liking a photo, but otherwise nothing; he has no social life to speak of and he lives with his two best friends. He navigates to the phone app and stares at Hakyeon’s contact card, hovering his finger over the call button and nibbling his lip. It’s not that he doesn’t want to call. He _does_ , and that’s the problem. He just can’t keep jumping from relationship to relationship. It’s not healthy, and it’s just hurting more than it’s helping at this point. He’s being presumptuous, of course, since all they’ve done is slept together twice, but there’s a niggling little voice in his head telling him that this time is _different_ , that he can’t keep being afraid.

He locks the phone and places it face-down on the bedside table, reaching for his journal instead. It’s not worth it, he tells himself. It's just not worth it.

*******

The week passes in a blur of sleep and words and work, Sanghyuk putting in more effort than necessary at the bar just to keep Hakyeon out of his mind. It doesn’t work, not really, but it’s not for lack of trying. He catches Wonshik and Hongbin exchanging long glances, sometimes, and knows what they’re thinking, but still he does not text Hakyeon, doesn’t call him. It’s horrible of him—but he can’t. He just can’t.

For once it’s not sunlight waking him, nor a warm body curled in the bed next to him. Instead it’s Wonshik, blaring his own music from the living room, loud enough to make everything on Sanghyuk’s bedside table vibrate. It’s his routine—every day before a gig he blasts all his songs as loud as possible, often while rapping along—and Sanghyuk should be used to it by now. Instead he rolls over and glares at the ceiling. It’s one thing to know it’s coming and yet another to be faced with the reality of it.

What makes it more poignant, however, is how the song that’s currently playing is one that Sanghyuk wrote the lyrics for—or partly wrote the lyrics for. Wonshik claims that poetry isn’t that different from rap, and that they really do the same thing, but Sanghyuk’s words don’t have to fit to a rhythm and they don’t have to adhere to a structure. He does enjoy writing lyrics for Wonshik, because it’s a challenge, but it’s certainly not his best work. This song in particular, titled _After_ , he'd wrote after he and Youngjae had gone their separate ways, when he’d screamed and railed at the injustice of it all. It’s a simple song, with nothing but a piano melody, a beat, and Wonshik’s voice to tell the story of how his heart had been broken so cleanly in two.

Perhaps it’s this that makes him roll over and reach for his phone. Perhaps it’s something else entirely. But all he knows is all of a sudden he’s pulling up Hakyeon’s contact card and typing a text before he can stop himself. His own words ring in his head as his fingers fly over the keys, and when he presses send on the message— _what are you doing tonight?_ —it’s with only the slightest hint of regret. It’s not that he wants this to continue, because he does not want to be stuck writing sad songs for Wonshik the rest of his life, but moreso that he just cannot stop thinking of Hakyeon no matter what he does, and reaching out to contact him feels like finally scratching an itch. He sends off another text, this one to Wonshik saying _can u bring me some water pls?_ before rolling onto his back and flinging a hand over his eyes.

“Since when,” says Wonshik, traipsing into Sanghyuk’s room a few minutes later, “am I your bitch?”

He’s brought the water, though, and Sanghyuk sits up and takes it from him with a grateful nod. “Since you were eleven,” he replies, dodging the way Wonshik swipes at him and narrowing his eyes as Wonshik perches himself somewhat delicately at the foot of his bed. “What do you want?”

For a moment, Wonshik doesn’t say anything. He just studies Sanghyuk, eyes narrowed, and then turns away to study Sanghyuk’s room. The half-empty bottle of vodka on the windowsill is covered in a fine layer of dust; it hasn’t been touched in a while. His desk is a mess, but then it’s always a mess. There’s a mountain of clothes on the floor. The bedraggled aloe vera plant Hongbin got him as a present two birthdays ago is looking rather brown around the edges, but it’s still alive. All in all his room paints a picture of healing (and someone who needs to water their plant more often), which he’s not sure is really true. He doesn’t know if he _can_ heal, properly.

“Nothing,” Wonshik says eventually, standing up and offering Sanghyuk a wide smile that grows even wider when Sanghyuk’s phone vibrates noisily on his bedside table. “Nothing at all.”

It’s not Wonshik’s mark that makes him so irritating, Sanghyuk realises as Wonshik slips out of the room and back down the hall. It’s not this that makes him be a giant, know-it-all ass. It’s just part of his personality, and he’s too tired to accept that right now so he just turns to his phone, staring at it warily like it might bite him. It’s Hakyeon. He knows it is—there’s no one else who would be texting him this early—and yet for a long moment he cannot make himself move.

 _hello stranger_ , the text reads, and Sanghyuk instantly feels guilty. _absolutely nothing. why do you ask?_

 _my hyung is playing a gig tonight_ , he types before he can second-guess himself, nibbling at his bottom lip and resisting the urge to lock the phone and fall back asleep just so he does not have to deal with this. _the one I write lyrics for. interested?_

A long silence. Sanghyuk nearly _does_ fall asleep like that, sitting upright with his phone clutched in his hands like a lifeline, but jolts awake when Wonshik slams a door somewhere in the direction of the kitchen. He takes another long swallow of water, avoids looking at his phone, jumps when it buzzes some time later—a while later, in texting terms. _interested in what?_

It’s a weekday morning, which means—well. Sanghyuk has no idea what it means. He doesn’t have a clue who Hakyeon is, still; he doesn’t even know what he does for a job, so he can’t picture what he’s doing in any way. Maybe he’s at home, sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he shovels toast into his mouth. Maybe he’s driving in that completely ostentatious (to the point of being absurd) car. Maybe he’s at work, texting underneath the desk from a meeting. Sanghyuk just doesn’t _know_ , and while that should be another strike against Hakyeon and the whole damn situation, he finds himself texting back anyway. _interested in going with me?_

This time the reply is instantaneous. _Sure!_ It’s innocuous, but Sanghyuk feels guiltier than ever. Not only did he leave Hakyeon in the morning—the most cliche asshole move _ever_ —but he’d let the week without contact stretch painfully long, unsure of himself. He’s _still_ unsure of himself. But Hakyeon doesn’t seem to be. He’s just about to reply when another text rolls through, and this one has him grinning at his phone widely, his mood lifting a little. _what do I wear?_

_Um, not what you were wearing the other night._

_Are you saying I make bad fashion choices?_

_No… I’m just saying those choices might not fit a hongdae club at one in the morning._

_So again I ask, what do I wear?_

_I don’t know. Something casual._

_Something casual. Got it. I’ll see what I can rustle up. What’s the address?_

At this, Sanghyuk rolls out of bed—albeit reluctantly, his body sluggish and slow—and pads down the hall to the kitchen, flopping onto the lounge dramatically. Wonshik is there, bending over the toaster and rapping along to the song that’s playing under his breath, and Sanghyuk just watches him for a moment. “What’s the address for the gig tonight?”

“Fuck!” Wonshik jumps and bangs his head on the cabinet. “Shit! Sanghyuk, don’t sneak up on me like that.” He’s scowling when he turns, but then he processes Sanghyuk’s question, and his expression changes instantly. “Why? Are you inviting someone?”

By _someone_ he means _Hakyeon_ , Sanghyuk knows, but he just nods. “Yeah, so what’s the address?”

Wonshik rattles it off with a fat smirk stretched across his lips, and it would be irritating if Sanghyuk wasn’t feeling excited at the prospect of seeing Hakyeon again. Although, he reconsiders as he texts Hakyeon the address, it’s not just excitement. There’s nervousness there, palpable in the way he can’t stop biting his lip, evident in the way he locks his phone and places it face-down on the lounge because he cannot bear to see the response. Wonshik watches all of this with an unreadable expression, and Sanghyuk meets his gaze easily.

He cannot help but feel that he is getting in too far over his head once again—but then, everything about Hakyeon is so absolutely intoxicating that it seems that he just cannot help himself.

*******

“I don’t think this is what Sanghyuk meant when he said casual,” Hakyeon says doubtfully, staring at himself in the mirror.

He should have known better than to recruit Jaehwan on this mission, though once he’d gotten wind of Sanghyuk re-establishing contact (“why do you look so happy?” he’d asked, suspiciously, but then before Hakyeon could even say anything Jaehwan had snatched the phone away. “It’s car boy, isn’t it? He texted you!”) he hadn’t been able to get rid of him, which is why he’s standing in Jaehwan’s bedroom, wearing the most ridiculous hoodie he’s ever worn in his life.

“First of all,” Jaehwan says, coming around to Hakyeon’s front to adjust the collar of the hoodie, “yes, it is. Trust me. I’ve been to more gigs than you. And second of all, what was your other option? Taekwoon? Taekwoon’s idea of casual is wearing a suit without a tie.”

Inwardly, Hakyeon agrees, but he still thinks that a suit without a tie would be better than what he has on right now. Jaehwan’s dressed him in one of his ridiculously oversized hoodies, complete with black skinny jeans and boots. It’s not something he would have worn even back in university, and it’s certainly not something he would wear now—even if he knows the hoodie costs a shitload of money, as does everything else in Jaehwan’s wardrobe. “Don’t you have anything else?”

“No,” Jaehwan replies smugly, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t.” (A lie. Hakyeon’s seen his hoodie collection.) “You look good. You’ll fit right in.”

The hoodie is purple and emblazoned with red text that says _SEXUAL FANTASIES_ across the chest, which Hakyeon thinks is sending the wrong message. He cares about Sanghyuk—even though they only met once, as Jaehwan keeps reminding him—and doesn’t just want to fuck him again, although that would be nice. This _thing_ they have between them surpasses sex, he knows (he doesn’t know how he knows that, only that he does and that he does not want to spend time musing on it), and Sanghyuk is skittish enough without Hakyeon’s fashion choices throwing a wrench into the mix.

But before he can open his mouth to rebut, Jaehwan is taking him by the hand and tugging him down the hall, pushing him down onto the sofa and pressing a drink into his hand. “Here,” he says, flopping down next to him and tucking his legs underneath him. “This will help take the edge off the nerves.”

“How did you know I was nervous?” Hakyeon asks, but does as he’s told and takes a pull of the drink. A gin and tonic, smooth and dry, the way Jaehwan knows he likes it. It’s a small comfort.

Jaehwan grins. “Because you’re doing that thing,” he says, and he points at Hakyeon’s leg. “Fidgeting. It’s an easy tell.”

Hakyeon stills his leg from where he was jiggling it restlessly and takes another swallow of the drink in lieu of a reply. Just like (nearly) always, Jaehwan’s right. He _is_ nervous. There’s something about Sanghyuk that gets to him, puts him on edge, and he’s still not sure how he feels about that. He’s still not sure how he feels about _Sanghyuk_ , beyond knowing that he cares about him; he’d thought they had something good, or the start of something good, but then he’d woken up to an empty bed, nothing but the faint scent of Sanghyuk’s skin and a note that left him with more questions than it answered.

And the poetry. He hasn’t quite been able to forget that. _moonlight becomes him / sunlight consumes him._ Those words have been swirling around his head since Sanghyuk left, leaving him horribly restless and confused, his thoughts straying at work. Because, if he’s being honest with himself, the truth is this: they are still strangers. Just because they had sex—twice—does not mean a thing. But the way he’d felt when Sanghyuk touched him, the way Sanghyuk had hissed when Hakyeon touched his mark… That meant something.

He doesn’t know if he’s ready to find out what, though.

“I feel ridiculous,” he finally admits, when he’s finished the drink. “I’m—I think I’m too old for this.” _This_ he illustrates with a wishy-washy hand gesture for emphasis.

At this, Jaehwan leans forward, his eyes bright. “Too old for what?”

“I don’t know. Dating?” He shrugs. “Going clubbing? Wearing your clothes? Pick one.”

“And that’s how I know you’re a lost cause,” Jaehwan groans, snatching the glass from Hakyeon’s hand and slamming it down on the table. “God, hang out with Taekwoon for years and look what you become. You, Hakyeon, are allergic to _fun_.” Hakyeon opens his mouth, but Jaehwan just shakes his head. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Let’s?” is all Hakyeon can say as he’s swept up in Hurricane Jaehwan.

Before he knows it he finds himself in the passenger seat of Jaehwan’s car, looking across at Jaehwan, eyes wide. This wasn’t the plan. He was meant to go there alone, considering he’s pretty sure this is a date—their _first_ date, he reminds himself—and the invite wasn’t extended to anyone else. But plans never seem to apply to Jaehwan, so he just resigns himself as Jaehwan peels out of the garage, singing along loudly to the first song that comes on the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lil bit of nothing plot-wise in this chapter but we got some character development so YEET
> 
> i hope you're enjoying it so far! c:


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they’re just regarding each other, unsure, knowing they’re both about to tip over the edge of something that could destroy them—but sanghyuk apparently decides it’s worth the risk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter needs a PSA that i'm not a poet, lmao. I thought making sanghyuk a poet would be great fun and it was fine and dandy right up until I realised I needed to write poetry for him, and immediately regretted every life choice that lead me here. 
> 
> so what I'm saying is—don't drag me for the shit poetry LOL

Jaehwan’s GPS takes them down a maze of tiny back streets clogged with people, and it takes so long that he gets frustrated and parks in the first empty spot he sees. It means they have to walk, but when Jaehwan steals into a convenience store and comes out with grape flavoured soju—“to ease the nerves,” he says, wiggling his hips as he returns to Hakyeon—the walk turns into something fun, helped by the way the alcohol winds through his veins, turning him flushed and giggly. He’s not drunk. Not really. He’s just tipsy, laughing as Jaehwan nearly falls over, grabbing him by his oversized sleeve—his hoodie is a dark red emblazoned with _may the bridges I burn light the way_ —to yank him upright again.

They find the club with some difficulty. Jaehwan wanders back and forth, staring at his phone incredulously, muttering about how this _must_ be the right address, until Hakyeon spies some people entering a completely innocuous doorway and grabs Jaehwan, dragging him inside.

He hasn’t been to a club in years, and this is nothing like the ones he used to frequent back in university. His friends went to clubs to dance, back then, but there’s someone on stage rapping when they walk in, the crowd jamming along, and he feels completely out of his element once more. The one saving grace is that it’s relatively early for a Friday night, and so it’s not packed with people.

“Where’s your boy?” Jaehwan shouts over the din, grabbing Hakyeon’s elbow to steer him towards an empty booth. “Can you see him?”

Hakyeon has been deliberately avoiding looking at the crowd in depth because he’s almost afraid Sanghyuk won’t be there, but the alcohol Jaehwan has imbibed him with gives him a bit of courage and so he stands on his toes, peering over heads. “No,” he says, craning his neck. “I don’t know where—wait.”

And then he sees him, leaning against a wall talking to a tall, pretty boy, and Hakyeon’s hand automatically falls to his own wrist. Sanghyuk looks stunning under the dim light of the club, and Hakyeon’s slightly relieved to see that he’s wearing an oversized jumper, too—albeit his isn’t emblazoned with a ridiculous slogan.

As if Hakyeon has called his name, Sanghyuk turns at the same instant, and their eyes meet across the room. A range of emotions cross his face in rapid succession, and Hakyeon wishes he could read them; he doesn’t know Sanghyuk well enough to tell what he’s thinking, but in the end he starts smiling as he makes his way towards Hakyeon, weaving through the crowd and lifting his hand in a wave. “Hey,” he says, and he sounds slightly breathless. Hakyeon opens his mouth to reply, but then Sanghyuk’s throwing his arms around him in a hug that’s surprisingly intimate. He only has time to wind one hand around Sanghyuk’s waist before he pulls back, though, his face looking flushed. “I—I didn’t know if you’d actually come.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Hakyeon replies, with the hint of a smile. “This is—”

He hadn’t been introducing Jaehwan, but he leaps in anyway, hand extended and eyes bright like he’s looking at the eighth wonder of the world. “I’m Jaehwan! Nice to meet you.”

“He invited himself,” Hakyeon explains, wincing as Sanghyuk’s eyes widen as he remembers who Jaehwan is. “Sorry.”

The smile that curls over Sanghyuk’s face after a moment is wide and genuine, and some of the tension Hakyeon was carrying releases. “Jaehwan,” Sanghyuk replies, with an eyebrow raised. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Sanghyuk.”

“Oh, I know,” Jaehwan replies happily, and then before Hakyeon can stop him, continues blithely on. “Hakyeon’s told me all about you—”

It’s then that the rapper on stage finishes his set, and above the claps and cheers of the crowd Hakyeon takes this opportunity to bump Jaehwan with his hip, sending him a few steps sideways and cutting him abruptly off. Smiling sweetly as he turns to Sanghyuk, he says, “Do you want a drink?”

“Sure,” Sanghyuk says, after a pause.

They fall into silence as they wait in line at the bar and eventually get their drinks. Hakyeon doesn’t find it hard to look at Sanghyuk—in fact, he’s having a hard time tearing his eyes away from the younger man—but that’s not a sentiment that’s echoed, because Sanghyuk looks everywhere but at Hakyeon. It’s there between them again, that wall, and Hakyeon has no right to want to break it down, but does anyway.

“So,” he starts once they’ve slid into a booth (and after he’s shooed Jaehwan away), wrapping his hands around the cold of his beer bottle to ground himself. “Your friend the rapper. How do you know him?”

“High school. He and Hongbin and I were a trio,” Sanghyuk explains, looking up and meeting Hakyeon’s eyes properly for what feels like the first time that night. “It was obvious to anyone who looked that they would be matched the moment they got their marks. It’s an interesting friendship.” His lips quirk up in a smile, and he steals a glance sideways at Jaehwan, who’s dancing by himself, eyes closed like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “And Jaehwan?”

“We’ve only been friends for a few years.” He hesitates, but only for a moment. How to explain without freaking Sanghyuk out even more? “We ran in the same social circles, but we were both pretty lonely until our mutual friend introduced us. We both don’t really… fit in.”

Sanghyuk smirks. “I can see that.” Before Hakyeon can tell whether that’s a playful dig at him, he keeps talking, a blush creeping up his neck. “Is he a businessman too?”

And there it is. They’ve circled back to what Hakyeon does, yet again. He doesn’t know why he can’t just be honest and open—it’s not like it’s a shameful secret or anything. But Sanghyuk is clearly uncomfortable with Hakyeon’s wealth; if he learns the details, he’ll probably run for the hills. He doesn’t want to spook him again. “No, he paints in his spare time, if he feels like it.” He raises an eyebrow. “Which is rarely. Most of the time he just seems to come over to my apartment and eat my food. And lend me clothes.”

“Ah,” Sanghyuk says, and he sidles a little closer so their thighs press together, and Hakyeon swears his heart stops in his chest. “So that’s why. I didn’t think this was your style.” He plucks at the fabric of the hoodie, right underneath the _sexual fantasies_ text.

Moving slowly, so Sanghyuk has plenty of advance warning, he catches Sanghyuk’s hand on his chest and links their fingers together. Sanghyuk’s skin is just as soft as he remembered, and just like last time, a buzz of _something_ goes through him at the skin contact. When he looks up, he can see Sanghyuk’s pupils are dilated, just as his must be. “Are you complaining?”

“No.” Hakyeon sees Sanghyuk’s tongue dart out to wet his lips and has to stop himself from shivering. “It’s just rather… brazen.”

“I think I can afford to be brazen,” he replies, smiling. It’s not like he’s hiding his attraction to Sanghyuk. It’s not like he _can_.

For a moment they sit there like that, swaying slowly towards each other, Hakyeon completely lost in the way Sanghyuk looks bathed in the glowing green light of the club—but then Sanghyuk pulls back, putting space between them, and folds his arms. “Fuck,” he says, and he sounds shaky. “That’s… that’s not fair. I wanted us to actually _talk_. You can’t go distracting me like that.”

“Alright,” Hakyeon agrees amicably, because he wants to talk to Sanghyuk too. He wants to find out what makes him tick. He wants to find out why he’d written that beautiful poetry and then _left_. He wants to ask why he’s covered his body in flowers. He wants to find out his favourite colour, if he’d had any childhood pets, what kind of music he listens to. He wants to pick at Sanghyuk’s stitches and undo them one by one to find what lays underneath. “I’ll stay over here, out of distracting range. What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” Sanghyuk runs a hand through his hair, and Hakyeon notices it’s shaking. “I didn’t… I didn’t really come prepared with a list of questions.” He casts another glance at Hakyeon. “You really are distracting.”

Hakyeon throws his hands up in protest. “I didn’t even do anything! I was just sitting—”

But then someone comes onstage and asks how they’re all doing tonight, and Sanghyuk’s face brightens, and he turns to Hakyeon excitedly. Hakyeon doesn’t have to ask to know that this is his friend the rapper. “Come on, it’s Wonshik hyung’s set,” he says, and grabs Hakyeon’s hand to drag him out towards the dance floor.

Aha, so it’s _that_ Wonshik. Hakyeon catches Jaehwan’s eyes over his shoulder as Sanghyuk tugs him deep into the crowd, quietly imploring him to follow—and then they’re at the very front, peering up at the stage, and that same tall, pretty boy is by Sanghyuk’s side. He takes Hakyeon in with one glance before offering him a smile. “Hakyeon, this is Hongbin,” Sanghyuk yells as the start of the first track begins. “My other best friend, and Wonshik’s match.”

“Nice to meet you,” Hakyeon yells politely, as politely as one can yell such a greeting. “I’m Hakyeon, and this—” he jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Jaehwan, who has followed them, “—is Jaehwan.”

They don’t speak any further, though, because the rapper onstage begins his set, opening with a song that has the whole crowd bouncing on their feet as a whole. Wonshik is tall and lean, his arms covered in tattoos, and he’s wearing a hat drawn low over his head and sunglasses, as if to hide his face. It’s hard for Hakyeon to get a proper sense of what he looks like, but it’s not like it matters; he’s jumping up and down and yelling along with the others, even though he doesn’t know the lyrics. Sanghyuk and Hongbin know every word, and Hongbin even copies the little gestures Wonshik does, laughing as he catches Hakyeon’s eye. It’s hot and sweaty and entirely unbecoming—if the gossip pages got wind of what he was doing tonight he’d never hear the end of it—but he doesn’t care, because when he turns to look at Sanghyuk and finds him already watching him, his eyes dark, a shiver runs down his spine and they reach for each other in sync.

They jump around to the rest of the set holding hands or with their arms around each other’s waists. It’s strangely intimate, even when it shouldn’t be—they’re in a crowd, after all. But Hakyeon keeps stealing glances at Sanghyuk, filing away every little memory in case Sanghyuk decides he wants to leave again. He looks ethereal, illuminated by the flashing lights of Wonshik’s stage; even though he’s sweaty, and his hair is sticking to his forehead, Hakyeon _still_ thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and he doesn’t know how he can stand it.

All too soon it’s over and Wonshik—having ripped off his shirt at some point during the set, revealing an expanse of smooth, tanned skin covered with even more ink—bows theatrically before blowing a kiss in Hongbin’s direction.

Automatically they disentangle from each other, faces flushed. Absurd, it’s so absurd to be feeling embarrassed about holding hands when he’s fucked Sanghyuk into the buttery leather of his car, but he can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck.

“Wow!” Jaehwan says, coming up behind them and slinging an arm over their shoulders, pulling them both in close to him. “That was amazing!”

“I agree.” Hakyeon nods. “He was really good. Did he perform any of the songs you wrote for him, Sanghyuk?”

“No. Those are mostly slow songs. They don’t really fit a stage like this.”

“Wait, you write songs?” Jaehwan leans in even further, his eyes wide, and Hakyeon instantly regrets ever bringing him.

“I write _poetry_ ,” Sanghyuk corrects sagely. “I’ve written lyrics for a couple of songs of Wonshik’s, though, when he’s asked.”

And then Jaehwan turns to Hakyeon, and with that idiotic smirk on his face—the one that makes Hakyeon want to grind his face into the dirt, or tickle him until he screams for mercy—he nods. “Ah. So _that’s_ why you like him. Shoulda known.”

And then he’s gone, bouncing away to sling an arm around Hongbin’s shoulders instead, chattering away at a million miles an hour. Hakyeon could _kill_ him.

“And what is that meant to mean?” Sanghyuk’s tone is guarded, like he’s not quite sure how to interpret that statement, and Hakyeon feels like he’s drowning. He barely knows how to interpret that statement.

He runs a hand through his hair, brushing it back over his forehead carefully. “I, uh, used to write poetry. When I was younger. I thought I would get published one day.” He shrugs, like the words don’t mean anything to him, wishing that was the truth. “I didn’t.”

A range of expressions cross Sanghyuk’s face, and yet again Hakyeon wishes he could reach out and pluck the thoughts from his brain, because he so desperately wants to know what he’s thinking. He hasn’t forgotten that they need to talk, either; just because he’d responded to Sanghyuk’s text so quickly (he’d been eating cereal in front of the TV when it had went off, and something in him _knew_ it was Sanghyuk—just knew—so he’d dived across the lounge to get it, spilling cereal everywhere. It was definitely worth it, though) doesn’t mean that he’s willing to let what happened get swept under the rug. He’d thought they’d shared something nice, the start of something really good, and then Sanghyuk had vanished without word for a week.

When Sanghyuk finally speaks, his voice is kind of wobbly. “I see,” he says, and Hakyeon heaves a silent sigh of relief when he reaches for Hakyeon’s hand, linking their fingers together. “Come on. Wonshik hyung will be waiting.”

By the time they make their way outside—having to push through the crowd that’s just arrived for the next act—it seems Jaehwan’s already made friends, because he’s standing there with his arms slung across the shoulders of both Hongbin and the man that Hakyeon immediately recognises from the stage. Without a hat and sunglasses he looks amicable, friendly even, and he breaks into a knowing smile when he sees Sanghyuk, staring pointedly at their linked hands.

“Took your time,” says Jaehwan, with a wink.

Hakyeon wings a silent prayer up to whoever’s listening that he gets through this night without killing Jaehwan and then smiles sweetly at him. “And I see you’ve made some new friends. Are they sick of you yet?”

“Of course not,” Jaehwan replies cheerfully, squeezing Hongbin and Wonshik a little closer. They both look mildly alarmed, and Hakyeon has sympathy. Hurricane Jaehwan is in full force tonight.

“Uh, this is Wonshik. Hyung, this is Hakyeon,” Sanghyuk says into the awkward silence, dropping Hakyeon’s hand and gesturing between the two.

Obligingly, Hakyeon takes a step forward and shakes Wonshik’s hand, smiling at him in a way that he hopes is non-threatening. Wonshik’s grip is strong, and he smiles right back at Hakyeon, wide and affable. “Nice to finally meet you. Sanghyuk’s told us a lot about you—”

“And that’s enough introductions,” Sanghyuk blurts, barreling between them and forcing them apart, a blush creeping up his neck. “Wonshik hyung, are you guys heading home first before you go out? Oh.” He turns to Hakyeon. “We normally go clubbing after a gig. You’re welcome to come, of course. You and Jaehwan both.”

Hakyeon opens his mouth to volunteer that he thinks that will be a terrifically awful idea—none of them have seen Jaehwan really dance when he gets into his rhythm, and Hakyeon actually _likes_ Sanghyuk and does not want to frighten him away—but the combination of Sanghyuk, pressed up against his side, and Hongbin speaking, distracts him completely.

“Yeah, we were going to. Will you guys follow us there?”

Like all matched pairs, one answers for the other without having to think about it. It’s not like they share a brain, but more like they’re so in tune with what each other wants that the response is instinctual and rolls off the tongue. He’s seen it with Taekwoon and Gayeong, and he’s seeing it now; the way Hongbin and Wonshik move around each other, like they’re subtly tied to each other by an invisible thread, is fascinating to watch. It makes his heart ache, but it’s fascinating nonetheless.

After some back-and-forth they agree that Wonshik and Hongbin will drive home and Sanghyuk, Jaehwan and Hakyeon will follow in Jaehwan’s car—Sanghyuk driving, since the others are too drunk for that. Hakyeon listens with half an ear. He’s too busy watching Hongbin and Wonshik, and then when he thinks he’s not looking, staring at Sanghyuk and clenching his fists. The urge to reach for him, to touch, is so overwhelming he can barely stand it, and it’s so hard for him to believe that they are, essentially, still strangers.

“You guys go on, I want to talk to Hakyeon for a sec,” Sanghyuk says, jolting Hakyeon out of his reverie.

The other three do as they’re told, though not without Jaehwan throwing a pointed glance over his shoulder as he practically drags Hongbin and Wonshik away, chattering at a million miles an hour about his favourite clubs.

And then they’re alone.

Sanghyuk seems nervous, Hakyeon decides; he’s seemed nervous this entire evening, which is somewhat confusing since he’d been the one to reach out in the first place (and a small part of Hakyeon was convinced he’d never hear from him again; that part warred with another, more stubborn part of his brain that told him to _just call!_ but he never got up the courage) and he’s been initiating touches just as much as Hakyeon has all night. He is just about to ask what Sanghyuk wants to talk to him about when, apropos of nothing, Sanghyuk barrels into him and pushes him up against the wall. He hovers there for a second, long enough to have Hakyeon’s heart leap into his throat, before dragging Hakyeon into a kiss that’s scorching in its intensity, that winds through his blood and grabs him by the heart and makes him think _yes, this is it_. He kisses Sanghyuk back with equal ferocity, desperate to feel him. He didn’t realise how much he’s missed this, and perhaps that should ring alarm bells in his head since it was only a week that they were parted, but he just cannot bring himself to care.

“Jesus,” he murmurs when Sanghyuk pulls away, their chests heaving in sync. “Not that I’m complaining, but what was that for?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that all night.” Sanghyuk takes a wobbly step closer and shivers—he actually shivers, viscerally—when Hakyeon slides his palm up to cup the back of his neck. “I told myself I wouldn’t, but I just…”

 _Why are you resisting this so much?_ Hakyeon thinks as Sanghyuk pushes into him once more, kissing him so hard he nearly forgets how to think. _Why don’t you just let things be and see where we end up?_ There’s something more to this story, he can tell, something to why Sanghyuk is so fucking guarded—Hakyeon’s not the only one shielding a part of himself so he doesn’t get hurt. He wants to ask, wants to unfold Sanghyuk to see the very core of him, wants to hold him close and tell him that this is real and he doesn’t have to worry—but they’re still _strangers_. They still don’t know each other, and therein lies the rub.

“Stop thinking,” Sanghyuk mumbles as he pushes up the hem of Jaehwan’s stupid hoodie to splay a hand on Hakyeon’s belly.

“How could you tell I was thinking?” he counters, reaching to do the same to Sanghyuk and just dragging his jumper up instead, sliding his palms along the broad surface of his back before digging his nails in to hear him whine.

Sanghyuk snorts into his neck. “It’s written all over your face. You’re—”

He doesn’t get to finish whatever he was going to say, however, because from behind him comes the noise of someone tripping and falling and then shouting “ _OW_ ” at the top of their lungs, and Hakyeon winces because he knows that voice. Sanghyuk’s frozen like they’ve been caught by the police, but Hakyeon just grabs the hem of his jumper and pulls it back down. “Fucking Jaehwan,” he sighs, and Sanghyuk’s worried expression changes to one of relief and then amusement.

“Lovebirds!” Jaehwan singsongs as he picks himself up from the pavement, stumbling over to them and grabbing Hakyeon by the wrist. “Come _on_. I want to go clubbing.”

“And you had to interrupt us to do this?” Hakyeon asks wryly, rolling his eyes as he looks back over his shoulder at Sanghyuk.

“Yes. You were taking too long. You can do that shit at the club. Or at their apartment, I don’t care. But come _on_. I wanna _dance_.”

Catching up to them—Hakyeon’s being dragged along now—Sanghyuk smirks as he waggles a finger between the two of them. “And how old is he?” he asks to Hakyeon in a conspiratorial stage-whisper that Jaehwan overhears and huffs exasperatedly in reply to.

“Older than you, so watch your tone,” he warns, but it’s the least genuine thing in the world because he can’t stop grinning as he says it—and the idea of Jaehwan being anyone’s hyung is hilarious in the first place, so Sanghyuk just rolls his eyes.

“Where did you park?” he asks Jaehwan. It’s an innocent enough question, and a good one at that, but it sparks panic because Jaehwan drops Hakyeon’s wrist to wail, “I don’t know!”

It takes them a while—an embarrassingly long time, actually, considering it’s only been two hours at most since they parked—to find the car, and they only succeed because Jaehwan recognises the convenience store where he bought the soju and races ahead, flailing his arms about and yelling, “It’s down here! Come on!”

Even though it’s childish, his enthusiasm is infectious, and as Hakyeon and Sanghyuk jog after him they’re both laughing. It’s a chilly evening, cold enough to make their cheeks pink, and when Sanghyuk turns to him Hakyeon thinks his heart might just stop in his chest. It would be idiotic of him to say Sanghyuk is the most beautiful man he has ever seen, because he cannot stop thinking it—but really, he is, especially when he’s laughing like now, his face scrunched up, reaching for Hakyeon’s hand to twine their fingers together.

“Jesus,” Sanghyuk breathes once they reach the car. “Is this really your car, Jaehwan?”

Jaehwan has a particular penchant for German cars—he and Hakyeon have had numerous half-hearted squabbles about it over a glass of wine long into the wee hours of the morning (half-hearted because Hakyeon does enjoy driving, and he loves the cars he has, but he isn’t as rabid about it as Jaehwan is). He owns two Porsches—a Porsche 991 GT3 RS (the exact same car as Hakyeon; he’d gone and bought one for himself after Hakyeon had let him drive his) and a Cayenne Turbo, a hideous 4WD that he sometimes drives just to annoy Hakyeon—as well as an Audi R8, a BMW M5, and two Mercedes-Benz’s: an AMG GT R and his daily driver, the car that’s parked in front of them now, an AMG S65 Coupe in matte black with red racing stripes (he had, of course, tried to make Mercedes fit it with flame decals because he thought it would be hilarious. They did not, and had refused).

“Yeah,” Jaehwan says nonchalantly, and digs the fob out of his jeans pocket before chucking it to Sanghyuk. “Come on!”

Sanghyuk has that look in his eyes again, the same one he’d had when he saw Hakyeon’s cars, and then his apartment. It’s a look of abject fear, his face pale and drawn, so Hakyeon squeezes his hand gently. “Hey. Don’t worry. If you crash it, it’s no big deal. This is the replacement for the last one he smashed.”

“And that’s meant to reassure me?” Sanghyuk replies faintly, but he squeezes Hakyeon’s hand back weakly and attempts a watery smile. “Just don’t laugh if I drive like I’m eighty, okay?”

There’s a small squabble over who gets the back seat—“It’s my car! I should get the front!” Jaehwan says, pouting, and Hakyeon just folds his arms over his chest and wonders how to say ‘go fuck yourself’ without Sanghyuk hearing—before Jaehwan, anxious to get going (and to get to more alcohol) gives in and folds himself into the tiny back seat, grumbling light-heartedly the whole time. Hakyeon considers reaching across for Sanghyuk’s hand again, but then reconsiders when he sees he has them both gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles are going white.

It’s awkward in the car. Sanghyuk isn't speaking—he seems to be paying rabid attention to the road, not even noticing there’s anyone else in the car with him—and Hakyeon doesn’t want to distract him, so for the first few minutes they just sit there in silence before Jaehwan gets fed up and leans forward, propping his elbows on the armrest between the front seats and resting his chin on his hands. “Hongbin and Wonshik are nice,” he says, and Sanghyuk jumps.

“Yeah,” he replies with a smile, and it’s clear he’s more at ease with talking about his friends than anything else they’ve broached in conversation so far. “Annoying as hell sometimes, but nice.”

“We had some interesting discussions about Hakyeon,” Jaehwan continues. “They told me some of the things you’d said about him. And I told them some things Hakyeon’s said about you—”

Hakyeon whirls in his seat to clap a hand over Jaehwan’s mouth, but he ducks out of the way, laughing maniacally like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Jaehwan, shut up _right now_ ,” he hisses, because this is very dangerous territory.

Sanghyuk, however, looks through the rearview mirror at Jaehwan—studiously ignoring Hakyeon’s pleas to not listen to a word he says—and raises an eyebrow before glancing sideways at Hakyeon with a smirk. “Oh, yeah? What _has_ he been saying about me?”

There are any number of dangerous things Jaehwan could say right now, and Hakyeon considers opening the door and flinging himself into traffic. It would be less painful, after all, than hearing Jaehwan explain how Hakyeon thinks Sanghyuk is the most handsome man he’s ever seen, how it was the best sex he’s ever had, how, when Sanghyuk bit the spot below his mark, he felt like he was dying and being reborn all at once, how he hasn’t felt this alive in a long, long time. All of these things Hakyeon had confessed to Jaehwan one night—in the middle of that long week without contact from Sanghyuk—as they cradled glasses of pinot noir and lay tangled on the sofa together, Jaehwan playing with his hair absentmindedly. Worst of all he might say that Hakyeon had said he was thinking about taking off his watch and revealing his mark—taboo to even think about, let alone speak out loud.

Thankfully, though, Jaehwan catches wind of Hakyeon’s genuine desperation and just smiles. “Oh, nothing too interesting. Just that he’s smitten.” He pauses just when Hakyeon thinks he’s gotten away with it, and adds, “And that you’re an animal in the sack.”

“You know your Klimt?” Hakyeon whirls in his seat. “I’m going to burn it—”

“I’ll smash your fucking Porsche—”

“And I’ll crash this car if you two keep bickering!” Sanghyuk yells, but he’s trying so hard not to smile, and failing, that neither of them can take him seriously. “You should both be in the back seat.”

“Who’s the hyung now?” Hakyeon laughs, ducking as Sanghyuk swats at him. His hand falls on the back of Hakyeon’s neck instead, his thumb stroking behind his ear, and it’s a casual touch but one that sets his nerves to sparking nonetheless. Instantly he settles, placated by the touch and somehow wanting more, and winks when Sanghyuk looks over at him, slack-jawed.

(He can’t be making this up in his head. He _can’t_. Not when Sanghyuk looks the way he feels whenever their skin makes contact. It has to be real. Doesn’t it?)

The rest of the drive passes peacefully. Sanghyuk’s hand on his neck migrates down to fall on his thigh and it stays like that as they wind their way through a part of the city that Hakyeon hasn’t been to in years, wouldn’t even know how to get to in the first place. By the time they pull into a dingy garage and park next to an enormous battered Jeep, Hakyeon’s halfway to falling asleep. “That yours?” he asks, nodding at the Jeep as he gets out of the car.

Sanghyuk glances at it. “Yeah,” he says, and looks at the ground. If Hakyeon’s not wrong—and he rarely is—the tips of his ears are going red, but from what emotion Hakyeon has no idea. “Well, sort of. We all chipped in to buy it, but Wonshik spends the most time fixing it, so he likes to claim it’s his.” He shrugs. “Not much to claim.”

He’s being so self-deprecating that, Hakyeon decides as they make their way to the lift with Jaehwan trailing after them like a lost puppy, it must be a defence mechanism. Throw out all the quips before anyone else can ever hope to. Make it clear, right from the start, that he doesn’t appear to have much going for him. But that’s bullshit. Hakyeon doesn’t care that his car is a Jeep that looks to be older than him. He doesn’t care that the lift reeks of stale cigarette smoke, and he doesn’t care that the wallpaper in the hallway is stained and peeling. All he cares about is Sanghyuk’s profile as he leads them down to a doorway numbered _405_ , digging keys out of his pocket and letting himself in.

“Welcome,” he says quietly with a sweeping gesture inwards. “Want a drink?”

“Sure!” Jaehwan chirrups, before turning to shoot a glance at Hakyeon.

Hakyeon understands what he’s trying to say. It’s been over five years since his business started taking off and allowing him to live the way he does now, but even before that, he was distinctly middle-class. His parents had sent him to university on a partial scholarship, but there’d never been any money troubles in his family, and as far as he knows on Jaehwan’s end—he rarely talks about his childhood—it was much the same. This is an apartment he might read about in the paper, see on television, but he hasn’t seen anything like it before in person. It’s tiny and cramped and dim, thanks to the fluorescent strip on the ceiling that doesn’t work all that well, but despite all of that it feels like a _home_. For all Hakyeon’s creature comforts, his apartment does feel lonely most of the time. This is tiny and homely and has traces of life all over it; he’s immediately drawn to the posters plastering the wall above the television and wanders over that way, nearly jumping a foot in the air when he realises Wonshik’s sitting on the sofa playing on his phone. “Yo,” he says as a greeting, raising the drink he has in his hand. “Sanghyuk didn’t pull any stunts to try and impress you, did he? Sometimes he does that.”

“What, in the car?” Hakyeon shakes his head, biting back a smile. “No, he behaved himself. Hey, nice job in the club back there.” He shrugs apologetically. “I don’t really know anything about rap, but even I can tell you’re good.”

“Thanks!” Wonshik says with a smile. “I—”

“Don’t,” Sanghyuk barks, sidling up to them with a drink in each hand. “You’ll inflate his ego even further, and fuck knows he doesn’t need it.”

Wonshik just shrugs and flicks his hair out of his eyes. “Just because I’m the best at what I do—”

“Ignore him. He’s always like this after a gig.” Sanghyuk bumps Hakyeon gently with his elbow and hands him his drink. He still looks stressed, and Hakyeon wants to reassure him that it’s okay, even though he knows it’s certainly not his place. “Do you want a tour?”

“Lead the way.” He takes a sip of his drink and is pleasantly surprised to find that it’s a martini, beautifully made and perfectly dry (albeit served in a highball tumbler), before he remembers that Sanghyuk works in a bar. Of course he’d be good at making cocktails.

He feels Jaehwan fall into step behind them as Sanghyuk leads them through the apartment. “This is the kitchen, obviously. Down here is the bathroom—” as they pass, Hakyeon can hear the shower running and someone, presumably Hongbin, warbling loudly from inside, and Sanghyuk shrugs as if to say _what can you do?_ “This is Wonshik and Hongbin’s room, this is the linen cupboard, and this is my room.”

They come to a dead stop in the doorway. Hakyeon wants to run his hands over every surface, open every drawer if it’ll tell him more about Sanghyuk, but instead he just looks, taking everything in. It’s small but cosy; his bed is unmade, the dark red sheets twisted into a pile. His desk is covered with numerous journals and ream after ream of loose lined paper—some, Hakyeon can see, have writing on them, scrawled furiously in handwriting that Hakyeon recognises from his note. There’s a half-empty bottle of vodka on the windowsill next to an ashtray and a packet of cigarettes. A ragged succulent sits on the floor, its leaves curling up as it steadfastly appears to cling to life. There’s posters on the walls, too; bands and arthouse movies that Hakyeon’s never heard of before but suddenly wants to dive face-first into.

“Wow,” he murmurs quietly, and when he looks at Sanghyuk finds him already watching him take the room in with an unreadable expression on his face. “I love it.”

An expression not unlike relief blooms on Sanghyuk’s face, but Hakyeon only has a moment to savour it before Jaehwan’s pushing his way into the room, pointing at the succulent with an accusing finger. “You need to move that so it gets more sun. Can I have a cigarette?”

“Sure. I’ve mostly given up anyway.” Sanghyuk gestures towards the windowsill as he perches on the chair tucked underneath the desk.

Jaehwan taps a cigarette out from the pack and sticks it in his mouth before turning and wiggling his eyebrows. “I’ll go outside, then,” he mumbles around the cigarette, “and leave you two to it.”

Before Hakyeon can throw a pillow or something more dangerous—the vodka bottle, perhaps—at his head, he ducks out of the room and shuts the door behind him, leaving the two of them staring at the space where he was standing. “Is that what he’s always like?” Sanghyuk wonders out loud.

“Pretty much.” Hakyeon shrugs as he sits down on Sanghyuk’s bed. “But he’s one of two friends I’ve got, so I have to keep him pretty close.”

“I can relate,” Sanghyuk replies with a wry smile, spinning in the chair. “Don’t know what I’d do without Wonshik or Hongbin, although they drive me mental most of the time.” He pauses and moves to fiddle with a journal, opening it and flicking through the pages. “Where, exactly, did you guys meet?”

More questions. More distance between them. But he can’t lie, doesn’t want to, anyway. “We were at a party and our mutual friend Taekwoon introduced us. We’d both been sort of standing on the sidelines.” He snorts as he remembers that night—it had been a masquerade party, the sort of absurdity those with old money loved to indulge in for the sake of it. Jaehwan had been wearing a rose gold and silver mask that had tiny pearls all along the bottom, real ones. It was such a contrast to Hakyeon’s plain black velvet mask and such a stupid show of opulence that he’d shot a glare at Taekwoon as he walked away— _really? This guy?_ “I thought he was insufferable at first. Just another rich kid with no sense, you know? But then he made an e e cummings reference in casual conversation. I wondered what kind of person just _did_ that.” He shrugs. “Jaehwan is the type of person to just do that.”

“You really are a poetry nerd, aren’t you?” Sanghyuk squints at him, tapping his fingers against the cover of the journal.

Hakyeon refrains from pointing out that e e cummings is pretty damn well known and anyone with even the barest hint of poetry knowledge would probably know the name and just nods instead, because, well, it’s true. Even when he wasn’t writing poetry, back when he thought he was good at it, he’d lived and breathed it. Less so now, but he still reads a lot of it in his spare time. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called a poetry nerd before, but yes, pretty much.” He gestures to the journal that Sanghyuk’s drumming on. “Are you going to let me read some of yours?”

He says this playfully, with a lightness in his tone that indicates he won’t be offended if Sanghyuk refuses, and he would hardly blame him if he did. His own poetry was incredibly personal and he’s never let anyone else read it. Instantly Sanghyuk blushes and clutches the journal to his chest like Hakyeon’s about to leap for it, his hesitation so pretty on his face. “You don’t want to hear my shit,” he says, with that same self-deprecating tone as earlier.

“Oh, but I do,” Hakyeon replies, shuffling so he’s lying on Sanghyuk’s bed on his side, propped up on an elbow. “Why else do you think I wanted to come here? I wanted to see the artist’s den for myself. And to sample his wares, of course.” He says this last part deliberately lewdly, grinning as Sanghyuk laughs.

“God, okay,” Sanghyuk says with a shaky exhale. “Let me pick one. Do you mind if I…” he gestures to the pack of cigarettes, and Hakyeon shakes his head.

They sit in a companionable silence for a while, Hakyeon sipping at his martini as cigarette smoke curls in the air around them. He tries to memorise this image as best he can, because he’s not sure it’s something he ever wants to forget: Sanghyuk with his legs kicked up on the desk, cigarette held delicately between two fingers as he turns the pages of a journal back and forth, occasionally putting it down on the desk to reach for another, hair falling in his eyes. It’s a comfortable, companionable silence, perhaps the first one they’ve had, and Hakyeon knows he could get used to this.

“Okay,” Sanghyuk says eventually, clearing his throat. In his hand is a small sheet of paper, crumpled like it’s been stuffed in a pocket. “This is… short. And probably really bad. Don’t judge, okay?”

“No judgement here. Promise.” Hakyeon rolls onto his back, so Sanghyuk doesn’t feel watched, and listens.

“I have these dreams  
You’re in my head, I’m in yours  
Sunlight refracts from you, is absorbed by me—  
You won’t turn from me

“Every protest I make is  
eaten by your silence

“Hope  
Is so hard to swallow  
Even as you undo my stitches  
Immerse yourself—  
In me  
Reaching and longing and yearning  
I wish I wish I wish

“Who are you?”

For a long moment they just lay there in silence. Hakyeon lets the words wash over him, absorbing them, wishing he had one of Sanghyuk’s cigarettes just so he had something to do with his hands, even though he doesn’t even smoke. He doesn’t know what to say. Something inside of him is aching, desperately so, and he has to close his eyes and remind himself that he isn’t twenty-one again, that he’s left all that behind. _Who_ are _you?_ he thinks as he opens his eyes and meets Sanghyuk’s, his heart racing in his chest.

“Say something, hyung,” Sanghyuk croaks, getting out of the chair and kneeling on the floor next to Hakyeon. Their faces are so close that Hakyeon can see every detail of the worry that’s written in his eyes. “Put me out of my misery. Is it terrible?”

Hakyeon rolls over properly so he’s on his side and brushes Sanghyuk’s hair away from his eyes. “No,” he starts, and Sanghyuk practically buckles with relief. It’s sweet that Hakyeon’s opinion means so much to him. Sometimes he feels it doesn’t matter to anyone anymore, especially not at work. “God, no. It’s gorgeous. When did you write it?”

“On the bus on the way home from your place,” Sanghyuk replies almost dreamily, leaning into Hakyeon’s hand.

Oh, Hakyeon’s heart starts racing at those words and his world narrows down to just this: the feeling of Sanghyuk’s cheek against his palm, the electricity the touch brings, the fact that maybe, just maybe, this might be reciprocated, even if Sanghyuk seems to be fighting himself every step of the way. “Sanghyuk,” he whispers, aware his mouth is dry and that he sounds vaguely desperate, because he feels like he’s falling face-first into something that’s larger than him, something that he has no control over. “You—”

“Don’t speak,” Sanghyuk begs, sounding so raw that Hakyeon stops talking immediately. “I can’t handle it when you…”

The moment hangs in the air for a few seconds, so poignant that Hakyeon swears he can feel his heartbeat all the way down to the tips of his fingers. They’re just regarding each other, unsure, knowing they’re both about to tip over the edge of something that could destroy them—but Sanghyuk apparently decides it’s worth the risk because he tangles both hands in Hakyeon’s hair and drags him painfully into a kiss that’s searing in its heat, everything he needs and is terrified of all at once.

“Hakyeon,” Sanghyuk moans into his mouth, his eyes wide open. “Hakyeon, Hakyeon, Hakyeon—”

His name has never sounded like a prayer before, like it might actually save someone’s life; he can feel the heft of Sanghyuk’s faith, tastes it on his tongue, mingling with the musky taste of cigarettes and gin that leaves his head spinning.

He doesn’t even get the chance to appreciate any of it, though, to pin Sanghyuk down on his bed and fuck into him slowly, to make him writhe, because there’s a pounding at the door and they spring away from each other like teenagers caught by their parents. “Hey, Sanghyuk, shower’s free,” calls Hongbin. “If you’re gonna go, hurry the fuck up. We wanna get going.”

“I’m not the one that took twenty minutes doing his hair,” Sanghyuk yells back, before turning back to Hakyeon and smiling wryly. “I’d ask you to join me, but I think the others may actually kill us. So, I’ll be quick. Feel free to help yourself to the booze in the kitchen.” He gets to his feet but not before pressing another kiss to Hakyeon’s lips, this one chaste and sweet, and when he leaves they’re both smiling to themselves.

The temptation for Hakyeon to pore through every sheet of paper on Sanghyuk’s desk is almost overwhelming and for a moment he just stands there, casting his eyes over it, catching words here and there: _sorrow—ache—longing—mark—hope_. At this last one he turns away, heat colouring his cheeks even though he hasn’t done anything wrong; even being next to the poems feels like he’s intruding, somehow, so he scoops his now-empty glass off the floor and heads towards the kitchen, knowing he’s not nearly drunk enough for whatever is to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [here's](https://hakyeonni.livejournal.com/5030.html) the livejournal post with pictures of jaehwan's cars! :3
> 
> also fun fact sanghyuk's poem was so shit the first time around that when i came back to this fic like three months after i wrote that bit i immediately rewrote the poem and it's still not great KLJDLKGDF i'm sorry just . suspend ur disbelief


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sanghyuk wants to live the rest of his life like this, balanced on the edge of that clifftop with Hakyeon by his side.

Sanghyuk gets undressed quickly, unravelling the bandage around his mark and, noting it smells like smoke from the club and from the cigarette he’s just had, drops it into the laundry basket. It’s not like he doesn’t have another five rolled up neatly inside his underwear drawer, a constant for eight years. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the day his mark appeared on his skin, the way his parents had exchanged glances tinged with sadness and what he recognised, later when he was older, as hope, before his mother pulled him aside to press a flesh-coloured bandage in his hand, telling him how to wrap and secure it. He’d wanted to ask at the time why he had to keep it covered up, why this cool new thing he had on his skin was shameful—but somehow, given the fact that his parents did not match, he knew not to ask.

He showers, hurrying because he knows it’s dangerous to leave Hakyeon alone with Wonshik and Hongbin—they could be saying _anything_ right now, which is vaguely terrifying considering what they’ve either figured out about Hakyeon or what Sanghyuk’s chosen to tell them—and also because he _does_ want to go clubbing as much as the rest of them. He keeps telling himself it’s because it’ll be fun to let loose, but he knows it’s because he wants to grind on Hakyeon, to feel his breath hot against his neck, to be pinned up against a dark wall just to feel the heat of their bodies.

Once he’s back in his room he stares at his wardrobe, nibbling his lip and considering. He could wear a long-sleeved shirt and forego the bandage entirely, but then—Hakyeon peeling it over his head, his eyes falling to the mark on his forearm— _no_. He won’t risk it. He fetches a bandage and winds it around his mark, yanking a baggy t-shirt from his drawer instead. That’ll have to do.

He finds them all in the living room. Jaehwan’s lounging on the floor at Hakyeon’s feet as he reclines on the sofa, drink in hand, gesticulating with it wildly as he tells some story. Hongbin’s sitting on Wonshik’s lap, and no one seems particularly concerned by this. Worst of all, however, is how every eye turns to look at him as he stands in the doorway, suddenly feeling very, very nervous. “Hey,” he says lamely, because _why are they looking at him like that._ “Uh, do I have something on my face?”

Belatedly he realises that Hakyeon’s looking at him with what must be lust, or want, or something along those lines—Jaehwan’s eyes are twinkling with amusement, which does not bode well for whatever he’s overhead from the others—and he swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry.

“Nothing more than your usual ugliness,” Wonshik replies teasingly, and tosses back what he has in his glass. “Are you ready to go?”

“Not so fast,” Sanghyuk says, and points accusingly. “What the hell did you tell them while I was in the shower?”

Hongbin blinks and smiles, showing off his dimples, but Sanghyuk is immune to his wiles and has been for a decade. “What makes you think we’ve told them anything?”

“I don’t know, because I’ve known you for forever?” He rolls his eyes and turns to Jaehwan, figuring he’ll crack first. “What did they say?”

But it’s Hakyeon who replies, stirring his drink with a straw and somehow managing to make even that movement look expensive. “Nothing too incriminating. Just that it’s nice to see you in the land of the living again. Apparently you’ve been holed up in your room for a while.”

“I’m an _artiste_ ,” he replies quickly with a hand gesture, trying to disguise the way his heart is pounding, certain it’s showing on his face. “It’s what we do.”

In actuality, he was holed up in his room because of Soomin, chain-smoking and day-drinking just so he didn’t have to feel a thing. The fact that Hakyeon knows this means that he knows about Soomin—he’s known about her since the beginning, really, since she was, in a rather obtuse way, the catalyst that led to him misdialing Wonshik’s number in the first place—and at least knows the outline of the extent of how badly he was (and still is) fucked up. Which means he knows he’s a rebound. Or is he? Sanghyuk’s rebounds tend to be one-night things. He doesn’t usually sleep over at theirs, and he doesn’t invite them out to gigs and then to clubbing. He doesn’t lie awake at night thinking about their hands, their voice, the way they move, so confident and self-assured. He doesn’t agonise over whether he fits in their lives or not. He doesn’t itch to strip them naked, to find their mark, to recognise it for what some part of him wishes it would be.

Instead of trying to figure out just what he and Hakyeon are he stuffs both hands in his jeans pockets. “Are we going?”

They take their time filing out, and Sanghyuk waits for Hakyeon to unfold himself from the sofa—the hoodie does look sort of ridiculous on him, but it’s also terribly endearing—to grab his hand as they traipse down the hall. “What did they really say?” he whispers, nodding to them; Jaehwan has once again wrapped around them both like a vine.

“They said I’m good for you,” Hakyeon whispers back quietly, and when Sanghyuk turns his head he realises their faces are very close together indeed. “They said it’s nice to see you being human again.”

Something in his heart lurches at those words. He knows Wonshik and Hongbin care, of course—they’ve all been through too much together for them not to—but they usually show it by nagging him and yelling at him to do his chores. He certainly didn’t expect them to show him they care through their words to Hakyeon, words that may well be disingenuous since Sanghyuk hasn’t worked out if Hakyeon is good for him or will just leave him broken all over again. But instead of vocalising any of these thoughts, since he knows it’s pointless to, he just gives Hakyeon’s hand a gentle squeeze as they all cram into the lift.

The club they end up going to is a short walk away from their apartment; it’s one of Wonshik’s go-tos, and when they get inside he’s immediately embraced by a group of men. It takes Sanghyuk a few moments before he places them—Wonshik was in a crew with them for a while before it dissolved, through no fault of anyone else, but they all still keep in contact. He hasn’t been out clubbing with Wonshik in months and he feels distinctly out of his element as he’s swept away from Hakyeon with an apologetic glance. Hakyeon waves him off with a smile and turns to head towards the bar, disappearing amongst the crowd, and Sanghyuk tries not to heave with disappointment.

“So,” someone says with an elbow to his ribs, and when he turns he realises Kyung is speaking to him. He’s the shortest member of Wonshik’s little crew, but with an attitude that makes you forget it; if Sanghyuk remembers correctly he was the mastermind behind the group’s forming in the first place. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen you here. Where’ve you been?”

Sanghyuk shrugs. “Heartbreak and all that shit. You know how it is.”

Kyung winces and claps a hand on his shoulder with sympathy before pushing a shot glass his way. “Again? Damn, dude. Sorry to hear it. You still writing?”

“Uh-huh.” Sanghyuk slams back the shot and makes a face; he loathes tequila.

“Have you got a publishing deal yet?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t be here,” he replies dryly, and Kyung roars with laughter.

He’d sort of forgotten what it was like to be out with a group of friendly faces. His depression had isolated him, allowed him to think that he was totally alone in this world, but it’s just not true. He’s not hugely close to any one of them, but they do love him—after a while Jiho turns up as well and he keeps ruffling Sanghyuk’s hair, a gesture of affection that only he understands—and as he gets more and more drunk he starts to feel more and more like he’s really, truly becoming human again. They end up on the dancefloor, and it’s only until he attempts to dance with Hongbin that he realises how drunk he is and ends up stumbling to the bar instead, slamming back a glass of water and then another.

“Hey, stranger,” someone says from beside him.

He nearly spills the water on himself when he turns. Hakyeon has shed the hoodie—some vague corner of his mind wonders if he gave it to Jaehwan to wear, layers upon layers—and is standing there wearing a tight black long sleeved shirt, looking hotter than he has any right to be when Sanghyuk’s this intoxicated. His hair is pushed back off his forehead, and for the first time since Sanghyuk first met him, he looks slightly… dishevelled. It makes him even sexier, if such a thing was possible, and before he can stop himself Sanghyuk tips forward off his stool to kiss him. It’s sloppy, not least because he nearly misses Hakyeon’s mouth entirely, but somehow the messiness just fuels him even further and he groans, the noise lost in the din of the club.

“Dance with me?” he asks.

Hakyeon’s mouth tastes like vodka as he kisses Sanghyuk instead of answering right away, and Sanghyuk realises he’s as drunk as he is. “It’s been years since I danced,” he mutters, but his hand curling on Sanghyuk’s waist isn’t a refusal. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I would _never_ ,” Sanghyuk replies mock-seriously before sliding off his stool and dragging Hakyeon by the wrist—not the one with his watch on it, he’s being careful about that—to the dance floor.

They end up somewhere between Hongbin—off in his own world, his arms wrapped around Wonshik’s waist as he jumps around—and Jaehwan, who’s dancing with a woman Sanghyuk is pretty sure he’s served at work once or twice. But he can’t even pay attention to anything, not the music and not anyone around him, because all he can focus on is Hakyeon. There’s a strange hypnotic set to his hips, to the way he looks up at Sanghyuk through his eyelashes, playing at being demure even as his hands trail down over Sanghyuk’s ass. Normally there’s a buzz whenever their bare skin touches, something even Sanghyuk cannot deny, but with the alcohol running through his veins he feels like he’s well and truly alive for the first time in years.

He doesn’t really know how much time passes; he’s in that strange drunk state where he’s almost in another world, time ceasing to exist entirely. All that matters is the points of electricity on his waist, his arms, his neck, whenever Hakyeon touches him. They don’t kiss, but they don’t need to. This is almost more intimate than when they fucked, which he knows makes no sense because they’re surrounded by the heat of other people, but when he looks into Hakyeon’s eyes and sees desire mirrored there he just knows it to be true.

“Let’s get out of here,” he shouts over the music, one hand playing with the hairs at the base of Hakyeon’s neck. “Back to mine?”

Hakyeon nods, a smile too shrewd for how drunk he is settling on his features. “I’ll go and tell Jaehwan. Meet you out the front?”

They peel off. Sanghyuk finds Hongbin at the bar, doing shots as Minho—yet another of Wonshik’s rapper friends—cheers him on, the both of them looking dishevelled and worse for wear but by no means slowing down. “Going home,” he shouts, “with Hakyeon.”

“Have fun. And use a condom!” Hongbin yells after him as he threads through the crowd, laughing when Sanghyuk flicks him the finger over his shoulder.

He spills out into the chill of the night, reaching for his cigarettes before remembering he’s left them at home and he’s meant to be giving up anyway. Instead he just wraps both arms around himself and paces aimlessly back and forth, waiting for Hakyeon. When he arrives he doesn’t even say a word, just takes Sanghyuk’s hand and starts back towards the apartment with a single-mindedness that has Sanghyuk whining as he trails along behind. “Hyung! What’s the hurry?”

“Want to fuck you,” Hakyeon says simply, and— _God_ —when he looks the way he does, sweaty and damp and worse for wear, hearing him say such intentionally crude things has Sanghyuk’s chest tightening with anticipation and he does not know how he’ll be able to stand it.

As it turns out, he can’t, and the moment the lift doors shut he slams Hakyeon against the wall and presses into him, kissing him until they’re both gasping, until he can feel Hakyeon’s heart hammering against his palm when he slides it across his chest. This—the anticipation of what’s to come, of them stripping each other furiously and losing themselves in each other’s bodies yet again—is almost better than anything else, and Sanghyuk wants to live the rest of his life like this, balanced on the edge of that clifftop with Hakyeon by his side.

They fall over laughing when, in all their impatience, they can’t get their shoes off in time and have to sit on the floor to tug them off. That turns out to be a bad idea because before Sanghyuk knows it he’s splayed out on the lino of the hallway as Hakyeon sits on top of him, lifting up his shirt to press kisses down his chest. “Not here,” he gasps even as he does nothing to move. “We shouldn’t—in the hallway—”

“Get up then.” In a flash Hakyeon’s on his feet and pulling Sanghyuk up, their limbs tangled. “I’m an impatient man, Sanghyuk.”

He’s joking, but as they stumble down the hallway to Sanghyuk’s bedroom, holding onto each other and giggling, Sanghyuk realises that there’d been an undertone of something akin to solemnity in his voice. Hakyeon seems the sort of person used to getting what he wants, when he wants; it doesn’t seem like he has much patience, and what little he has, Sanghyuk has already tested in the short time they’ve known each other.

All of those thoughts disappear when Hakyeon sits on his bed and pulls him close, though, burying his head in Sanghyuk’s stomach, his hands sliding up the back of Sanghyuk’s shirt, and before Sanghyuk can stop himself he blurts, “God, I’ve missed you.”

Hakyeon goes very, very still before he looks up at Sanghyuk, and his gaze is even but ringed with some emotion that’s impossible to identify. “Really?” He seems to be warring with his words for a moment, and looks away, off to Sanghyuk’s right. “You give me the impression that I’m far more enthusiastic about you than you are about me. So,” and this he says with a wry smile that looks too good on his face, “pardon me if I find that hard to believe.”

Sanghyuk’s mark burns under his bandage as he chews his lip. How can he explain—how can he even _begin_ to explain his deep-seated fears that have plagued him all his life, thanks to watching his parents? How can he say that he’s so terrified of getting in too deep with Hakyeon, not just because it’s clear they’re from completely different universes but also because he’s not sure that his heart will survive another break; that, if he throws himself once more into the void only to find out this time is a lie as well, he knows it will be the end of him? His chest is tight now not with anticipation but with terror, and for all his time spent cherry-picking words for his poetry he finds himself now quite speechless. But he also knows that he cannot leave Hakyeon entirely in the dark, not when he seems so patently ready to give himself over to Sanghyuk, and so sighs deeply.

“I’m enthusiastic,” he says, and then realises he sounds hoarse and clears his throat. “I’m into you. Trust me, I am. I’m just… when you touch me, it’s like… like nothing I’ve ever felt before. That scares me.”

Moving slowly so as not to spook him, Hakyeon reaches up and wraps a hand around his bandage. The change in Sanghyuk’s expression with the touch—so pleasurable he feels like he’s flying and dying, all at once—is mirrored on his own face, and he smiles. “You feel it,” he whispers, and, dreamily, Sanghyuk nods. “Don’t you want to… know?”

He does, oh, he does. But he can’t. He can’t take that risk, not when Hakyeon might be the one thing he needs, but also might not be. So he just closes his eyes, sliding one hand into Hakyeon’s hair. “I can’t,” he says, the words coming out more brokenly than he’d intended. “I just—I can’t.”

All his fears must be transmitted through those words because Hakyeon takes his hand away from the bandage and settles it on Sanghyuk’s hip instead. “Okay,” he whispers.

It’s a concession, and it’s one that Sanghyuk gratefully accepts, sliding onto Hakyeon’s lap and pulling him into a kiss. For the longest time that’s how they stay, Sanghyuk with both hands tangled in Hakyeon’s hair, Hakyeon’s hands tracing patterns up and down his back, kissing languidly and sloppily and with no concern to anything but _this_ , learning the feel of each other’s mouths by rote. It’s only until Hakyeon rocks his hips upwards that Sanghyuk realises how hard they both are and desire slams into him so hard he’s left breathless at its breadth and width. He’d thought he knew what desire was before, but when he’s faced with Hakyeon he’s not sure he had any idea.

“Off,” he mumbles, tugging at the hem of Hakyeon’s shirt. “I need this—off—”

Hakyeon laughs as he obeys, pulling his shirt over his head. Just like last time the sight of so much tan skin goes straight to Sanghyuk’s head, and when he yanks his own t-shirt over his head and presses their chests together he nearly makes a noise. The electricity that hums through his veins whenever they touch is threatening to overwhelm him, and instead of focusing on it he buries his head in the spot where Hakyeon’s neck meets his shoulder and bites him there, wanting to mark him as his own even if he might not be, in the end. Underneath him, Hakyeon moans, and Sanghyuk knows he never wants to stop hearing that noise; it’s musical and beautiful and _his_ and, even though part of him wants to die even as he admits it, he fears he may be in too deep now.

Pushing him down on the bed, Hakyeon straddles him and flattens a hand on his ribs, over his snake tattoo. “Why did you get this?”

For a moment he considers replying snarkily, but he doesn’t know if he can even formulate a sarcastic response; his head is fogged with arousal and the world is sort of hazy in an entirely pleasant way. “Beautiful things can come from pain,” he says quietly.

He’d got that tattoo after his breakup with Youngjae. That had been particularly nasty on both sides; they kept coming back to each other time and time again, tortured by the knowledge that even as they moved in each other they weren’t right and could never be, wanting to rip their soulmarks from their skin and be free of this hideous burden. Eventually Youngjae had ended it properly, even as Sanghyuk begged, down on his hands and knees, prostrating himself for a chance to have the impossible. It hadn’t worked, of course. The wanting and not-wanting had torn him apart and he’d gone to his artist (a tall, lanky guy by the name of Yongguk who Sanghyuk had found through Wonshik’s circle of tattoo artists he knows) and begged him, over a bottle of soju when the shop was closed, to translate his anguish and grief into something bearable. The sketch had blown him away—the snake stared up balefully even as it was broken into three parts, the flowers in the breaks so delicate and beautiful that he was instantly drawn to it. It had taken two sessions, and it’d hurt like hell, but it’s one of his favourite pieces and he’s glad he’d got it.

Hakyeon’s looking at him expectantly, though, not content with that explanation, so Sanghyuk fixes his eyes at a spot on the wall and sighs. “I got it after the relationship I had with my boyfriend at the time fell apart.” He closes his eyes. “We didn’t match. It… wasn’t a good time for me. It was a nice reminder that sometimes life kicks you in the ass, but it always has a reason to.” When he opens his eyes again, he can see Hakyeon looking at him with pity and his skin crawls. “Well, I hope it does.”

Sanghyuk can tell Hakyeon still has questions burning in him; they’re lighting up his eyes, painting his features with the kind of quiet urge to _know_ that Sanghyuk is all-too familiar with. How many times in the past week has he laid awake and stared at his ceiling and resisted the urge to google Hakyeon? How many times has he wondered what it is that he does, why he’s so rich? And worst of all, how many times has he kept circling back to the fact that, with Hakyeon drowning in wealth and Sanghyuk parched of money, there’s no way on earth they belong together, that this is just circumstance being cruel once more? But Sanghyuk doesn’t voice these concerns, and Hakyeon doesn’t voice his, and instead they lose each other in touch until they’re both naked and Sanghyuk is tugging open the drawer of his nightstand to look for condoms and lube.

In the end Sanghyuk pushes Hakyeon up against the headboard of the bed and kneels over him, working himself open with slick fingers before sliding onto Hakyeon’s cock with a quiet gasp that rings through the both of them. For a moment that’s how they both stay, swaying; they’re so close together that Sanghyuk can feel Hakyeon’s breaths rattle in his chest as he inhales and exhales, can hear his heart pounding, as fast as his own. It’s intimate, disturbingly so, and instead of focusing on that—on how whole he feels, on how _right_ Hakyeon is—he starts fucking himself on Hakyeon’s cock. It’s slow and languid, the smooth slide of limbs, of quiet gasps lost to the air and of Hakyeon swallowing over and over again, his mouth dropping open. But then his hand falls on Sanghyuk’s bandage, and he loses himself.

“Please,” he finds himself begging, although he’s not sure what for; the feeling of Hakyeon’s hand, hot on his soulmark, is almost too good. “Please, just—”

But Hakyeon knows. His fingers edge up, sliding underneath the bandage, and the moment he touches Sanghyuk’s soulmark he cries out, he cannot help it. He feels like every synapse in his brain is firing all at once, like all his nerve endings are alight. _It has to be, it cannot be, Hakyeon_ , he thinks, and screws his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to see the reverent expression on Hakyeon’s face. This is so illicit and so wrong his skin is crawling with the rightness and the wrongness of it—they are a paradox, in every way. Perhaps the worst part of it is how good it feels. The pleasure rings through him, and he clutches Hakyeon close, not sure he’ll survive this.

“Sanghyuk,” Hakyeon gasps into the skin of Sanghyuk’s neck, biting him there as if to mark him. “Sanghyuk, please, you…”

Moving slowly (he doesn’t even feel like his limbs have any weight to them, he’s that boneless), he reaches for Hakyeon’s watch and slips his fingernails under the clasp, lifting it up. It’s dark, the only light coming from the moon outside since he’d switched off the lamp earlier, but still he averts his eyes as the watch slides down Hakyeon’s forearm, not wanting to _know_. It’s all too easy, though, to wrap his fingers around the spot where the watch was—and Hakyeon whines, a high, choked noise, and bucks underneath Sanghyuk, his eyes rolling back in his head. One touch and he’s completely undone. _And even more beautiful like this_ , Sanghyuk thinks, watching blearily as Hakyeon refocuses on him, sweaty and tousled, gorgeous in every single way. That electricity that burns through him whenever they touch is increased tenfold, now, and when Hakyeon digs his nails into Sanghyuk’s mark he gasps and shudders and comes, seeing stars and then, when Hakyeon doesn’t let go, seeing nothing at all.

He comes back to himself some time later, having slumped onto Hakyeon’s chest. Hakyeon is stroking lazy patterns into his back, his lips resting on Sanghyuk’s shoulder in a kiss, and when Sanghyuk stirs he draws him closer into the circle of his arms. “You okay?” he whispers.

“More than okay,” he replies, and wonders when he got so hoarse. “I don’t think I can move, though.”

Hakyeon laughs and Sanghyuk moves with him. “Let me,” he says, and gently pushes Sanghyuk upright, letting him flop onto the bed.

He’s vaguely aware of Hakyeon moving around his room, but he can’t even be bothered to crack open an eyelid to see. He’s too fucked-out, too content, too warm and fuzzy and awash with feelings that are disappointingly familiar. When Hakyeon leaves the room he at least has the sense to run a hand over his bandage, tucking the loose end back under, before rolling onto his back and sighing happily. In the morning he’s going to regret every single second of this—especially allowing Hakyeon to touch his mark, touching his in return, the most taboo touches of all—but right now he’s banishing all of his negative thoughts in favour of warm, happy ones. God knows he deserves some.

“Move,” Hakyeon says as he comes back into the room, not unkindly.

Sanghyuk does, rolling over onto his side and sighing with happiness as Hakyeon slips under the sheet behind him. He’s still naked, and as he pulls Sanghyuk close all that bare skin makes him feel drunk and heady all over again, like his world is spinning and they’re at the center of it. It’s exquisite and unbearable, and some small part of him knows he will not be able to stand much more of this.

“Hyung?” he whispers, drifting backwards into sleep.

“Mmm?”

“Stay, in the morning?”

Hakyeon’s laugh is low and throaty and Sanghyuk feels it rather than hears it, warm against his back. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and his reassurance is so tangible Sanghyuk feels like he could reach out and touch it.  
  


*******

  
It’s been years since university, but Hakyeon still remembers living in the dorms; he’d be dragged from sleep every other day by the pounding of feet down the hall, or of his roommate blasting eighties hits at full volume. Which is why when he’s woken the next morning by the sound of _I Ran_ by A Flock of Seagulls blasting through a speaker somewhere, a warm body curled around him from behind, he has to take a few moments to remember what year it is. But the poetry journals on the desk, the wilting plant, the dusty vodka bottle—he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget Sanghyuk, even if he tries, and when he sits up and runs a hand through his hair it all comes back to him at once, leaving him utterly breathless.

The noise that Sanghyuk had made when Hakyeon had dragged his fingernails down his mark… Hakyeon has never heard anything like it, not ever, and he knows that moment will stick with him until he dies. That’s not even mentioning the way it had felt when Sanghyuk’s fingertips had grazed his own mark, exhilarating and terrifying all at once, and that’s notable because he does not scare easily.

Shifting on the bed _(‘hypnotise me through’)_ he looks down at Sanghyuk, who looks so young and at peace in sleep, free of the weight of his transgressions that had been so evident on his face when he’d told Hakyeon about his tattoo. He stirs when Hakyeon bends down to kiss his shoulder _(‘and I ran, I ran so far away’)_ and blinks blearily against the light, moaning and pulling the sheet over his head _(‘I couldn’t get away’)_. “Morning, sleepyhead,” Hakyeon teases, winding his fingers around a lock of Sanghyuk’s hair and giving it a gentle tug. “I believe the music is a wakeup call.” _(‘a beam of light comes shining down on you’)_

“Hongbin hyung,” Sanghyuk grunts, rolling back over to rest his head on Hakyeon’s knee. Automatically, Hakyeon’s hand falls on his face, and they both sigh in unison. “He always does this when he’s hungover.”

“Seems counterproductive,” Hakyeon points out, noting his own head is pounding slightly and wincing, knowing he probably overdid it.

Sanghyuk cracks an eye open and shrugs. “He likes to punish himself,” he replies, and Hakyeon can’t tell if he’s being serious or not, but doesn’t dare to question further.

It’s when Sanghyuk props himself up on an elbow that Hakyeon’s eyes fall to his own wrist and he sees it—his mark, standing out starkly against the skin of his wrist, as blatant and obvious as can be without his watch on. With his left hand cupping Sanghyuk’s cheek he can’t help but stare for a second. _What if—_

But no. If Sanghyuk doesn’t want to reveal himself, Hakyeon won’t force him by showing his hand (so to speak) first. He whips his hand away and brushes Sanghyuk’s cheek with a kiss instead before sliding off the bed, ignoring the way Sanghyuk mewls and reaches for him (he has to ignore it, because if he pays any attention to it his pounding head might just explode entirely). “Shower,” he says, weakly, his heart racing.

“Towels are in the cupboard outside my room,” Sanghyuk replies, and rolls back over so Hakyeon’s left staring at his back.

For a long moment he just stands there, the fingers of his right hand tracing the shape of his mark as he stares at the bandage wrapped around Sanghyuk’s forearm. Why a bandage? Why does every facet of his mark seem like it’s a wound to him, down to the very thing that he uses to hide it? Hakyeon himself got lucky in that his mark is right on top of his wrist, small enough to be hidden by the face of any large-ish watch—and the brands he wears are all large, because that’s just what luxury watches are like—but even so, Sanghyuk could use something else to cover it. He wants to ask but is afraid to, so just stands, watching the rise and fall of Sanghyuk’s shoulders as he dozes, before turning and reaching first for his underwear and then his watch.

The playlist switches on to _Time After Time_ by Cyndi Lauper right as he reaches the bathroom—thankfully unseen, because while he doubts Hongbin or Wonshik would bat an eyelid at a near-naked stranger in their apartment, it’s undignified and not a situation he’d ordinarily find himself in—and he bites back a wry smile. It’s just a shuffled playlist, but it feels very personal.

By the time he finishes showering— _Hungry Like the Wolf_ by Duran Duran playing now—and makes his way back to the bedroom, this time clad in a towel wrapped around his waist, Sanghyuk has fallen asleep once more and Hakyeon can’t stop himself from sliding back into bed next to him. He cannot remember the last time he was addicted to touching someone like this. Just the feel of Sanghyuk’s skin on his own, the broad planes of his back smooth underneath his hands, has him biting his lip hard to try and stop himself from getting aroused. His cause is not helped, however, by Sanghyuk rolling over to kiss him with sleep-tousled hair and plump lips.

“Mmmm,” Hakyeon groans, pulling back, hating himself for doing so. “I refuse to have sex while Duran Duran is playing in the background.”

“What do you mean?” Sanghyuk mumbles, tangling a hand in Hakyeon’s hair and dragging him back in once more. “This song is _made_ for fucking to.”

“It’s so hard to say no to you,” Hakyeon laughs, nosing Sanghyuk’s head to the side to kiss his neck, flattening his tongue on the spot behind Sanghyuk’s ear that he’s learning makes him go limp.

The sweetest sound of all is perhaps Sanghyuk’s breath hitching in his throat when Hakyeon catches his earlobe between his teeth, and, considering he’s given up even a pretense of ignoring the fact that he’s incredibly turned on, he grinds his hips into Sanghyuk’s torturously slowly. In his haste to reach for him, though, his hand skims the bandage around Sanghyuk’s mark and his fingers catch the edge of it. It’s unintentional, an innocent mistake, but Sanghyuk shoots up and away from Hakyeon like he’s been burnt, clapping a hand over his mark.

“Sanghyuk,” Hakyeon starts, aware his own hand has fallen to cover his watch as they both regard each other evenly, panting with the effort of holding back. “Why?”

He nearly regrets asking, because the look of anguish on Sanghyuk’s face hurts him to see; it’s a mirror of how he was last night, shattered and heartbreakingly sorrowful, the very picture of grief. But what is he grieving? How can he be so scared to give himself over to what may be fate? Hakyeon has never really believed in fate, even though the soulmarks were an example of its existence, but now, he’s not too sure. All he knows is he wants to find out, desperately so; _are-we-are-we-not_ burning in his veins. Surely Sanghyuk wants to know too?

“I can’t,” Sanghyuk repeats, sounding broken. “What we have now, this—” and here he reaches out to cup Hakyeon’s cheek with a sad smile— “This couldn’t survive if we don’t match. And I really don’t want to lose this. Every time I thought I’d been right before, it’d all came crashing down. I don’t think… I don’t think I’d survive if it turned out we didn’t match in the end. I don’t want to ruin what we have now.”

“So we ignore the marks,” Hakyeon says with a shrug. “There’s _something_ between us. You can’t deny that. If it turns out we don’t match, the marks won’t matter.” Can’t matter, because he refuses to believe in something that feels like this but that the universe says is wrong.

Sanghyuk blanches, and pulls away. “My parents are unmatched,” he says, bleak, and he doesn’t have to say any more.

It’s rare, these days, to see unmatched couples; there’s such a stigma against it that those who wear their unmatching marks openly and proudly are almost part of a counterculture. There’s been all sorts of studies published on the health of unmatched families, the outcome for children with unmatched parents, and from what Hakyeon can remember from back in high school it’s all pretty grim. If Sanghyuk grew up in a family like that, his recalcitrance suddenly makes sense. To him, his mark must be absolute, not a question mark but a full stop. Hakyeon’s heart breaks for him all at once and he wishes he could say something to make it better, but for all his words they fail him now. “Okay,” he says eventually, softly, taking Sanghyuk’s hand and linking their fingers together. “Okay. I don’t mind waiting until you’re ready. You’re worth waiting for.”

“You’re so gross,” Sanghyuk chides, but he shuffles closer on the bed and kisses Hakyeon sweetly. “I don’t know how you can say shit like that with a straight face.”

“I only say it to get a reaction,” Hakyeon murmurs against Sanghyuk’s lips. “And so far, it’s working.”

“Asshole,” Sanghyuk shoots back, but the slap he launches at Hakyeon’s shoulder is lazy and has no heat behind it whatsoever.

“You wound me.” He cups Sanghyuk’s face with his hands and presses a soft kiss to his forehead ( _You Spin Me Round_ playing in the background now). “Now, what does one have to do to get food around here?”

A funny expression crosses Sanghyuk’s face—it’s almost shame. “I don’t think there’s much,” he confesses, and pulls out of Hakyeon’s grasp. “I can’t remember whose turn it was to do the grocery shopping, but they haven’t, so…”

It’s blatantly clear that he’s self-conscious of his lack of wealth compared to Hakyeon’s enormous net worth, but he doesn’t care about that, has never cared; unlike some of his contemporaries, some of whom would keel over at just the thought of their match being a nobody, he doesn’t give a shit about wealth. But perhaps it’s exactly this blasé attitude and lack of attention to how much things cost that makes Sanghyuk so self-conscious. He’s withdrawing into himself, a blush staining his cheeks, and Hakyeon hates himself for finding him beautiful like this. “Not even eggs? In university the only things I’d buy from the supermarket were ramyun and eggs.”

“Can you even cook eggs?” Sanghyuk asks, before another unreadable expression crosses his face and he shakes his head. “There’s so much I don’t know about you, hyung. If you have any siblings. What your major in university was. Why the fuck you’re so rich.” He laughs, but it’s humourless, and by the look in his eyes Hakyeon can see distrust—where the hell has this sprung from? “You seem so far above me it’s not even like we’re in the same universe. I’m halfway to falling for you and I don’t even know who you are—”

He cuts himself off with a violent choked noise and claps both hands over his mouth, but he can’t take the words back. They’re out there, hovering in the air between them, and Hakyeon swears he can’t even find the oxygen to take a breath in—it’s all he can do to twist his fingers in the sheets as his heart soars far above them both. “Sanghyuk,” he breathes, shuffling closer to Sanghyuk on the bed, somehow unable to believe that he’s having this conversation while _I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)_ plays in the background, eerily fitting even if somehow inappropriate. “Sanghyuk, listen—”

“Don’t lie to me,” Sanghyuk whispers, pressing himself against the wall and regarding Hakyeon with wide eyes, his lips set in a line.

“I can’t promise that I won’t burn them, because I haven’t cooked them in years, but yes, I can cook eggs,” he starts slowly, watching Sanghyuk carefully. “Scrambled or hardboiled, you choose. I have an older brother and two older sisters. They’re all matched and married, so I don’t see them very often. My major in university was initially creative writing but I switched to English lit when my teachers made it clear I didn’t have the aptitude to be a writer.” His lips twitch, bitter til the very last. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get over the sting of that conversation. “After graduating I worked very briefly in a publishing company before leaving to start my own. We filled a niche that wasn’t filled before, and the company grew fast.” Shrugging, he leans back on the bed, flicking his hair out of his eyes and trying to appear nonchalant even though he’s anything but. “I’m not an enigma, as cool as that would be.”

Hakyeon sees questions on the tip of Sanghyuk’s tongue—they’re written in his eyes, so plain in the way he licks his lips nervously. But instead of voicing any of them he just reaches out, tentatively, and trails the pads of his fingers over Hakyeon’s lips. “I take my eggs scrambled,” he whispers, and Hakyeon knows it’s acceptance, for now.

They get dressed, or attempt to; Hakyeon takes one look at the long-sleeved shirt he was wearing underneath the hoodie last night and wrinkles his nose, and Sanghyuk takes pity on him and throws him a giant black t-shirt and pair of ratty, but clean, pyjama shorts. They look absurd on him, he thinks, but then swallows those thoughts when he turns and sees Sanghyuk looking enraptured. Most importantly, they smell like Sanghyuk, and he kind of wants to steal them and take them home; this thought only vaguely shocks him at its forwardness, but he’s too buoyant to care.

Hongbin’s in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a bowl of dry cereal in his hands, staring straight ahead at nothing as the speakers blare _What I Like About You_. “Morning,” he grunts, squinting at the two of them. “How was your night?”

“Probably better than yours,” Sanghyuk says with a snort as Hakyeon makes a beeline for the fridge, yanking open the doors—yep, just as he suspected; there’s six eggs in there, and although he doesn’t know how old they are he fishes them out anyway. The rest of the fridge is pretty bare save for a lone bottle of coke and some orange juice of questionable age lurking in the back.

“Wonshik and Kyung had one of their drinking competitions and I was up all night making sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit,” Hongbin sighs, making Hakyeon and Sanghyuk wince in sync. “So, yeah, probably.”

He tunes out their conversation as he fishes a pan out from the cupboard next to the sink and sets it on the heat. He can’t remember the last time he cooked for himself, if he’s being honest. Normally Taekwoon gets food sent over or he eats at Jaehwan’s, or out at restaurants if he feels so inclined. It’s certainly been years since he scrambled eggs, but they’re a pretty hard recipe to fuck up—by the time they’re nearly done he feels Sanghyuk come up behind him and slide his arms around Hakyeon’s waist, dropping a kiss on his shoulder. It’s so mundane and domestic that his heart soars, as much as he tells himself he should probably take a leaf from Sanghyuk’s book and not get his hopes up too much. “Nearly done.”

“This is nice,” Sanghyuk says, and pauses. “I mean. Seeing you in my clothes, at my stove, in my kitchen.”

Hakyeon turns in his arms so they’re facing each other and smiles crookedly. “You’ll just have to invite me over more often, then.”

He can tell Sanghyuk’s struggling with a reply to that, and instead of saying anything, he just backs away and hops up to sit on the bench, pointing at the eggs with an accusing finger. “The eggs will be the true litmus test to determine your worth. If they’re good, you pass. If they’re bad… You don’t wanna know what happens if they’re bad.”

“Ominous,” Hakyeon replies with a straight face, turning back to the eggs and turning off the heat, grabbing a fork to try them. Considering it’s been years, they’re not bad; it’s better than the poisons Jaehwan concocts when he plays his ‘let’s pick five random ingredients and try and make a meal from them’ games, which Hakyeon and Taekwoon have been subjected to more than a few times. He scoops up another forkful and carries it over to Sanghyuk, holding it up to his mouth. “Here.”

“How old am I?” Sanghyuk protests, screwing up his face.

“Young enough to do what your hyung says,” Hakyeon replies without missing a beat, “and your hyung is telling you to eat the eggs he’s cooked for you. So. Eat the damn eggs.”

With a wink, Sanghyuk opens his mouth obligingly and Hakyeon shoves the fork in, deliberately aiming off-kilter so some of it spills down his front, making him curl over. He’s moaning as he chews, and Hakyeon can’t quite tell if it’s because the eggs are nice or because he’s got egg all over the floor; he can’t quite hold in his laughter, either.

“S’good!” mumbles Sanghyuk a few seconds later—or at least that’s what Hakyeon thinks he says. “More?”

He alternates between feeding Sanghyuk forkfuls and eating them himself, and it’s so disgustingly domestic that it makes him realise how much he missed this; at one point Sanghyuk loops his legs around Hakyeon’s hips, holding him close just so he can kiss him before releasing him once more. His friendship with Jaehwan has been domestic since the very first moment they met, but not like this, never like this. He’s hyper-aware of his mark itching underneath his watch, but he tries his best to ignore it. He promised Sanghyuk he’ll wait, and wait he shall, even if every moment that passes he’s convinced that it _has_ to be. Hasn’t it?

They’re startled out of their domestic bliss by Hakyeon’s phone going off. “Really?” Sanghyuk asks, staring at it from where it’s vibrating on the bench, _Like A Cat_ playing cheerfully through the speakers.

“Jaehwan likes the song,” Hakyeon mutters darkly as way of explanation, and then grabs it and eyes the screen. _Taekwoon_. “What?” he snaps, hitting the answer call button.

“I can only assume you’ve forgotten about this evening, if Jaehwan’s stories about last night are to believed,” Taekwoon says smoothly, smugness dripping from his voice as saccharine sweet as honey, and Hakyeon wishes he could throw his phone at the wall.

“I might’ve,” Hakyeon replies, making eye contact with Sanghyuk, who raises an eyebrow, a question. “But you’re going to remind me anyway.”

“‘You are cordially invited to the Match Party of Ahn Jaehyo and Son Seungwan, to be held in the Grand Ballroom at the Four—’”

Hakyeon rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Got it. Consider me reminded. Do I really have to go?”

He doesn’t know Jaehyo all that well; he’s the heir to Lotte group, born into wealth and having no concept of life outside of it. That’s not to say he’s insufferable—far from it. He’s one of the few that Hakyeon socialises with that he quite likes, apart from Jaehwan. But he knows what these match parties are like. He doesn’t relish the opportunity of spending hours in a tuxedo, drinking champagne and standing with his back pressed against the wall, hoping no one comes over and attempts conversation (most don’t, anyway; he and Jaehwan are given a wide berth at these sort of events, due to the fact they are, more often than not, the only new money attending). This one will be especially torturous, because while he’ll be toasting to Jaehyo and Seungwan’s happiness, he’ll be ignoring the way his mark feels underneath his watch and wishing he was right where he is now.

“Yes,” Taekwoon says, his tone indicating finality, and Hakyeon sighs. There’s to be no arguing with him when he gets like this. “I’ll send the car to pick you up.” A pause. “Where are you, exactly?”

Hakyeon gets Sanghyuk to rattle off the address, and if Taekwoon seems confused at where he is, he doesn’t show it. “Be ready in half an hour,” he says, and then hangs up without even saying goodbye.

“My assistant, Taekwoon,” Hakyeon sighs, leaning into Sanghyuk and sliding his arms around his waist. “I have to go to a… thing. I think he’d skin me alive if I didn’t show up.”

For a moment Sanghyuk doesn’t speak, and Hakyeon is terribly afraid this has just created more distance between them—match parties are gaudy and over the top and the only people who throw them, on the scale of holding them in the Grand Ballroom at the Four Seasons hotel, are people who have more money than sense. But then Sanghyuk breaks out into a grin and kisses Hakyeon on the forehead, his lips so soft that Hakyeon feels his knees go weak. _oh beauty of mine,_ he thinks, wishing—for the first time in years—he had a pen and paper. “That sounds boring as hell, and I’m really glad I’m not you.”

Hakyeon gets dressed in his jeans but keeps on the oversized shirt (at Sanghyuk’s insistence), but then gets entirely distracted when Sanghyuk pulls off his own shirt and Hakyeon finds himself somehow unable to keep away. He cannot stop touching Sanghyuk, marvelling at the electricity screaming through his veins, going straight to his head; he’s never done drugs before—save for some pot on a trip to America back in uni—but this must be what people get addicted to, the rush of it all. Before he knows it he has Sanghyuk pressed up against the wardrobe, one thigh wedged between Sanghyuk’s own, his lips tracing an unknowable pattern on Sanghyuk’s neck while the doorbell buzzes over and over and Hakyeon’s phone goes off behind them.

“Hyung—” Sanghyuk gasps as Hakyeon grinds into him, knowing he’s torturing himself more than he’s torturing Sanghyuk—at least he’ll be able to jack off when he leaves, and Hakyeon will not have the luxury—but unable to stop. “Hyung, you need to go.”

Showing some self-restraint, even though it kills him to do so, he pulls back and puts space between them. Sanghyuk’s got goosebumps all over him, his hardness desperately evident, and as he catches Hakyeon staring he folds his arms over his chest, one hand covering the bandage over his mark. “I know,” Hakyeon replies, mirroring the gesture. “Had to say goodbye, didn’t I?”

“Goodbye,” Sanghyuk echoes with a grin that turns to laughter when Hakyeon rolls his eyes. “Hey, wait—Wonshik hyung is gonna go busking this coming Thursday. Wanna come?”

It’s evident that the invitation is as unexpected to Hakyeon as it is to Sanghyuk, but to his credit, he doesn’t change his mind and reneg, so Hakyeon smiles at him. “Love to. Is Jaehwan welcome?”

“Even if he wasn’t, I have a feeling he’d turn up anyway,” Sanghyuk says, perfectly droll as he takes Hakyeon’s hand and leads him towards the front door. “But yeah, of course he is. Bring Taekwoon too, if you’d like.” When he looks back over his shoulder, he falters. “I mean, only if you want to. I don’t know if you guys are friends or if he’s just your assistant…”

“We’re friends, as much as he hates to admit it,” Hakyeon replies, and stuffs his feet in his shoes before Sanghyuk kisses him once more—briefly, this time, since although the doorbell has stopped buzzing his phone is still vibrating furiously in his hand. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”

Sanghyuk blows him a kiss as he leaves, and then he’s off, sprinting down the hall for the lift only because he knows what Taekwoon is like when he’s kept waiting. And sure enough, when Hakyeon gets down to street level and opens the door of his Rolls to reveal a disgruntled Taekwoon with two cups of coffee in hand, one iced, glaring like Hakyeon’s personally responsible for ruining his entire day, he realises he may have pushed the boundaries a bit too much. “Morning,” he says cheerfully, sliding inside and taking the coffee offered to him.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Taekwoon asks with narrowed eyes, before waving his hand in the air and reaching for his phone. “You know what—nevermind. Don’t answer. I don’t even want to know. We need to get back to your apartment so you can get changed, and then head over to the hotel by six. Jaehwan’s already at yours.”

“How’s his head?”

When Hakyeon had found Jaehwan last night he’d been attached—via the mouth—to some strange woman who was wearing the hoodie that Hakyeon had given back; they were practically having dry sex on one of the sofas in the club, which was kind of gross but also kind of standard for Jaehwan. He hadn’t wanted to interrupt, so he’d texted Jaehwan instead: _nice. I’m going home with sanghyuk. don’t forget to text seokjin if you need anything_ (it wouldn’t be the first time poor Seokjin would be dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to organise a driver to pick Jaehwan up. Hakyeon supposes he and Taekwoon must compare notes). Then he’d laid eyes on Sanghyuk, drunk and wide-eyed, and Jaehwan was the last thing on his mind.

“Don’t know and don’t really care,” Taekwoon says, still flicking through his phone. “You have lunch with the investors tomorrow.”

“Ugh,” Hakyeon groans, and slumps down in his seat, ignoring the way Taekwoon looks at him like he’s grown another head. “Do I have to?”

Taekwoon reaches out to grip Hakyeon’s chin, turning his head so they lock eyes. For all the tantrum Hakyeon’s throwing, Taekwoon looks completely indifferent, his gaze devoid of any emotion at all. “You are the CEO of a multinational company with a net worth of trillions and a board of directors to answer to, so yes,” he says, and quirks an eyebrow. “I’d suggest you get over this phase you’re in and get your head in the right place.”

“You don’t approve,” Hakyeon murmurs, an edge of authority in his voice. The lines between he and Taekwoon’s friendship are deliberately blurred most of the time, and Hakyeon _did_ hire him because he is good at what he does, but he’s pressing Hakyeon’s buttons in a way he never quite has before.

At this, Taekwoon lets him go and takes a sip of his iced coffee. “What you do in your spare time is of no consequence to me. It’s when it starts interfering with your job that I have a problem with it.”

“So you _don’t_ approve.” He slumps back and looks out the window at the river, glinting in the sunlight. “I thought you would understand more than Jaehwan does.” That’s a lie, actually—even though Taekwoon is matched he rarely talks about his feelings with Hakyeon, whereas Jaehwan loves deeply and passionately and has had a dozen different girlfriends alone in the time that Hakyeon has known him.

“I’ve just never seen you like this before,” Taekwoon replies, after a considerable pause. “You’re not acting like the businessman I’ve come to know and respect.”

His temper flares and for a heady, delicious moment he imagines telling the driver to stop the car and kicking Taekwoon out right here on the side of the bridge. He’s being awfully presumptuous, since Hakyeon doesn’t work on the weekends and there’s nothing wrong with him going out—just because Taekwoon hasn’t seen him wearing someone else’s clothes before, smelling like sex and scrambled eggs, does not mean that he’s changed and certainly doesn’t justify this judgemental tone. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing,” he says coolly, and tightens his hands around his coffee.

They spend the rest of the drive to Hakyeon’s in terse silence, neither of them looking at each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit of a longer chapter this time, sorry! I couldn't quite work out where to end it. i'm sorry updates have slowed to once a month. right now i'm in korean class and all my energy is being siphoned into that. come august i'll be done and i'll have time to write so I can speed up the updates and hopefully finish this thing by the end of the year!!
> 
> (also there were a lot of cameos in this chapter! if u can name them all + their groups I'll give u a hug... thru the internet... unless u live in seoul in which case I am available for hugs in person) 
> 
> (also also this fic has turned me into a complete poetry nerd. c'est la vie)
> 
> as always, pls pls comment if you're enjoying it!! thank you for reading ♡


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He just wants to exist with Hakyeon in a void with nothing but them—no marks, no expectations. Just whatever they feel between each other. Too bad that’s just an idyllic vision.

There’s still some eggs warm on the stove, so Sanghyuk scoops them into a bowl and wanders into Wonshik and Hongbin’s room, finding them both awake—although Wonshik looks closer to dead than he does to alive—and on their phones, draped over each other. Wonshik grunts when Sanghyuk settles himself on the end of the bed, but Hongbin catches a whiff of the eggs and shoots upright, making grabby-hands at the bowl. “You cooked?” he asks around a forkful.

“Hakyeon,” Sanghyuk says with a shrug, and _that_ gets Wonshik’s attention—he creaks upright into a sitting position and opens his mouth for Hongbin to shovel some eggs in.

“Nice,” he mutters, and Sanghyuk can tell he’s not just talking about the eggs. “Did you invite him to busking?”

“Is that a problem?”

Hongbin and Wonshik share a glance, one of those ‘we’re matched and you’re not so we know more than you’ type of things, which Sanghyuk thinks is utterly unfair and completely irritating, but they do it all the time. “Not at all,” Hongbin replies eventually, with a smile, and Sanghyuk resists the urge to roll his eyes. “It’s nice, actually.”

Flopping onto his back on the bed, Sanghyuk crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. “You always think everyone is nice. You thought Soomin was nice.”

“I didn’t,” Wonshik says, causing Sanghyuk to sit up and look at him. “What? I didn’t. She wasn’t good for you. And she drank too much—”

“Alright,” Sanghyuk snaps, holding both hands up. Just because they’ve broken up doesn’t mean Wonshik has to suddenly air every single grievance he’s ever had with Soomin. And it’s all sort of stuff he knew, anyway; Hongbin was perfectly genteel with her, as he is with everyone, but Wonshik had been cold to her—he either likes someone or he doesn’t, and if he doesn’t, he doesn’t even try. “Let me keep the nice memories of her without you shitting all over them.”

Wonshik’s probably right. Sanghyuk’d met her at the bar on Hongbin’s campus, drawn to her tattoos and the way she’d rejected him at first, flipping her hair over her shoulder like she was better than him. When they kissed her lips tasted like clove cigarettes and empty promises, and Sanghyuk had fallen for it, as they both knew he would. Their romance had been explosive and disastrous, something he should have known since they were both walking talking 2D stereotypes of self-destructive artists: he a poet and she a painter. Her mark was a splatter of multicoloured ink on her hip, the shape of which made no sense to Sanghyuk; he’d run his thumb over it and watched her shiver, seen the sadness in her eyes disguised by indifference. She always liked to pretend she didn’t care, when that was the problem—she cared too much. She’d left that very night. Sanghyuk had acted like he hadn’t seen her tears for her sake, even though they were streaking down her face, ruining her eyeliner, a stereotype to the last. He’d saved his until after she was gone.

He still can’t drink vodka without being reminded of her.

“Just saying.” Wonshik shrugs. “Hakyeon’s cool, though. Jaehwan’s full on, but he’s fun. They’re sorta chalk and cheese, though, aren’t they?”

Sanghyuk disagrees, actually, although he can see why Wonshik thinks so due to Jaehwan’s exuberance and Hakyeon’s apparent reservedness. But he’s seen enough of Hakyeon behind closed doors to know that he’s exuberant and playful, just as Jaehwan is. Jaehwan is even more blatant with his wealth than Hakyeon is—and Sanghyuk didn’t really think such a thing was possible—and he seems to not give a fuck about anything more than Hakyeon does, but otherwise, they seem pretty similar.

“I guess,” he says, playing with a thread on the blanket absentmindedly. “Don’t they… intimidate you?” At the blank look he gets in return from the both of them, he guesses not. “I mean… They just seem like they come from a different world.”

Wonshik rolls his eyes and Hongbin sets his lips in a line. “You have a complex,” he tells Sanghyuk seriously, and then leans forward and punches him on the shoulder, very not-seriously. “They’re just richer than us. They’re not assholes about it. Why should it matter?

Winding the thread on the blanket around his finger so it starts to cut off his circulation, he looks down at his hands and struggles with his words for a moment. “Hakyeon told me what he does for work,” he says eventually.

“Oh? Is he a chaebol heir or something?” Wonshik asks.

“No…” Sanghyuk looks up at them both, tugs on the thread, winces at the pain. “He said… He said he founded a publishing company. He’s now the CEO.” The realisation comes upon the both of them at once, and they freeze, eyes wide in gazes that mirror each other and would be funny if the situation wasn’t so miserable. “What… what if—”

“Sanghyuk, don’t,” Hongbin warns.

“What if his company is one of the ones that—that rejected me—”

“Don’t,” Hongbin says, and lunges across the bed to put both hands on Sanghyuk’s shoulders and give him a shake. “Don’t get lost in your head like that. If his company is one that rejected you—”

“And that’s a pretty big if,” Wonshik chimes in.

“—Then it’s not his fault. He’s the CEO. He isn’t an editor approving or rejecting every submission.”

Hongbin is, of course, right, but it doesn’t help the horrible threads of doubt that are winding around his heart, have been since Hakyeon let slip what he does. Of _course_ there’s a million publishing companies out there. Of _course_ even if he did send his poems to Hakyeon’s company it’s not Hakyeon’s fault. But the bounds of his rationality have been tested thoroughly recently, and right now he’s running on emotions—and his emotions want him to curl up in bed and forget Hakyeon ever exists. He knows that he’s in far too deep for that now, though, and that’s what makes it worse. He never should have had sex with Hakyeon in the back of his stupid car. He never should have met up with him in the first place.

“Don’t let this taint your opinion of him,” Wonshik offers, leaning forward to take Sanghyuk’s hand and squeeze it gently. “And if you think about it, it’s actually a plus. You’re a poet, and your boyfriend owns a publishing company.”

Sanghyuk slides off the bed, yanking the thread as he goes, ending up with it still wound round his finger as he backs away from the both of them. He’s shaking, although he knows he shouldn’t be pissed—Wonshik’s just making a joke, after all. But Sanghyuk resents even the implication that he might get his big break just because he’s fucked his way to the top, quite literally; he wants to get there on talent or not at all. “I’m going back to bed,” he says, trying not to sound bitter and failing entirely. “See you when I wake up.”

They don’t call out to him, and he’s glad for it.

*******

“Is the punch spiked?”

Hakyeon nearly shrieks and spills his glass on himself, saved at the last moment by remembering where he is and doing his utmost to keep his cool. He nearly flings it at Jaehwan when he turns to glare at him, though; he knows not to creep up on Hakyeon when he’s daydreaming and constantly does it anyway. “I wish,” he grunts, taking a gulp of it and wincing. “Just with sugar. It’s too sweet.”

“Gimme,” Jaehwan says, and snatches the glass from Hakyeon’s hands, downing it in one go and shrugging when Hakyeon stares. “What? Don’t you need to replace electrolytes after you drink, or whatever?”

Taking Jaehwan’s elbow—he’s wearing a tailored suit (as is Hakyeon), looking every inch the respectable gentleman he appears to be in public—to steer him away from the punch, Hakyeon takes the opportunity to dig two fingers into his waist and make him squirm. “Punch doesn’t have electrolytes in it, you dumbass,” he hisses good-naturedly. “And I doubt they have a powerade here.”

“It’s the Four Seasons,” Jaehwan snipes back, a grin pasted on his face as they wind their way through the crowd. “I could ask for one of the waiters to bring me a glass of warm milk stirred anti-clockwise four times and they’d fall over themselves to do it.”

“Fine. Get a powerade then.”

“But then it’d be obvious what I’d been up to last night.” They make it to what Hakyeon deems is a safe spot, away from everyone else and against the wall, and stop. Jaehwan turns to wiggle his eyebrows at Hakyeon. “And these people are so stuffy they’d probably keel over at the idea of taking some random girl home and fuc—”

Clapping a hand over Jaehwan’s mouth, Hakyeon rolls his eyes. “Maybe the older ones, yeah, but you know the people our age are just as debauched as you. You’d do well to stop looking down on the chaebol heirs.”

“They look down on us.”

“ _Some_ of them do,” Hakyeon corrects, not sure why he’s suddenly feeling the urge to stand up for the old money types, but doing it anyway; somehow his visit with Sanghyuk has made him more sympathetic to the differences between them and others. “But not all. Speaking of, we should probably find Jaehyo and give him our best wishes.”

“Probably,” Jaehwan sighs, but Hakyeon knows he’s just making a fuss at this point since they both like Jaehyo.

They find him on the balcony, looking out over the city with a glass of what looks to be whisky in his hand, bowtie already loosened even though the night is still young. The view beneath them is stunning—they’re in the true heart of the city, the part that’s ancient and still shows it, and Hakyeon can see, from here, the roofs of palaces nearby. “Hey,” he murmurs, and leans into Jaehyo on the railing. “Congrats on the match.”

Match parties are ritualistic, laden with customs left over since before Hakyeon’s grandparents’ time, and so tonight Jaehyo wears a suit that’s embroidered with the shape of his mark. As he turns, Hakyeon spies the pretty silver thread in the shape of some sort of bird on his jacket, right over his ribs. Interesting. “Thanks,” he replies, but he sounds tired. “They always tell you it’ll be easy, but it’s not. All this… ceremony.” He waves his glass in the air. “It’s so unnecessary.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Jaehwan says, but he pulls Jaehyo in for a hug and kisses him on the cheek. “But seriously, congratulations. One for the other side.”

As they all get older, the pool of their acquaintances—because Hakyeon wouldn’t really call these people friends—who aren’t matched gets smaller every year. With Jaehyo out, there’s only Hakyeon, Jaehwan, and a couple of others. Hakyeon doesn’t let it get to him, because if he did he’d end up desperate, and that is the last thing he wants to be. He just listens to the rhetoric everyone has been feeding him his whole life—when it happens, it happens—and tries to ignore the growing number of couples at every social event he attends.

“Are you sure you two don’t match?” Jaehyo asks with a raised eyebrow, laughing when Jaehwan sticks a finger in his mouth and pretends to gag. It’s nice to see a smile on his face again, especially as they still have a lot to get through—speeches, the slideshow of baby pictures, the works—and it’s clear he doesn’t really want to be here. Hakyeon can understand that.

It’s only a few minutes later when they hear the sliding door opening and turn in unison only to see the other half herself, Seungwan, making her way towards them. Just like Jaehyo, her dress is embroidered, too (her silver bird is on her chest, above her heart) but it’s not this Hakyeon is looking at. The change in her expression once she lays eyes on Jaehyo is something to be marvelled at. She’d looked worn-out, but the moment they lock eyes something in her face changes. She lights up from the inside. They step towards each other like they can’t help it, and Hakyeon and Jaehwan stand back and watch as they hug. It’s almost too intimate to stand.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says a few seconds later, smiling with a hint of embarrassment as she makes her way over to them and sticks out the hand that’s not wound around Jaehyo’s. “Nice to meet you. I’m Seungwan.”

“Cha Hakyeon, CEO of Wisdom House Publishing,” he says, and shakes her hand. While this seems pretentious—and had felt it, at first—it’s just the standard way of introducing oneself in the circles they run in.

Her eyes were already wide—because she probably hasn’t heard of his company and he didn’t introduce himself as 'heir', as so many others would have—but when she shakes hands with Jaehwan and he says, “Lee Jaehwan, CEO of nothing,” her eyes get even wider before she starts laughing, clearly unsure if she is allowed to or not.

It’s only now that Hakyeon remembers, as they all join in with the laughter, that she’s not born to wealth, either; her only connection to this world is Jaehyo, because, as far as Hakyeon knows, her family is perfectly normal and middle class. It’s when she turns to lean into Jaehyo that Hakyeon blinks and sees what could be, what part of him longs for: Sanghyuk leaning into him, wearing a suit embroidered with that familiar shape over his forearm, shaking hands and being utterly charming even though this is not his world. He admires Seungwan all the more.

“I think we should go inside,” she says, touching Hakyeon on the arm and smiling—she really is a natural at this. “More introductions to be made.”

“Not everyone’s as fun as us,” Jaehwan cuts in, sticking his tongue out at Hakyeon when he swats at him. “We’re new money, so we have no clue what we’re doing.”

“Join the club,” she whispers dryly under her breath as they all head for the balcony doors, and Hakyeon looks down at the ground and smiles.

*******

The week seems to absolutely crawl past, not helped by the fact that Jiho seems to take some kind of perverse pleasure in dragging Sanghyuk out of the house as often as possible, and as a result he’s scheduled on for shifts, some doubles, every single day without fail. It’s only made tolerable by Hakyeon’s texts, which had started the night he had to attend whatever ridiculous match party he’d been summoned to (he’d texted Sanghyuk a selfie of him wearing a suit, and Sanghyuk had nearly keeled over), and have continued since. Hakyeon keeps saying that Taekwoon is giving him dirty looks for texting at work, and that he’s going to put his phone away, but then another text rolls in and Sanghyuk will end up standing at the bar grinning at his phone like an idiot.

He’s doing exactly that when someone sidles up to him, rests their head on his shoulder, and says, brightly, “Whatcha doin?”

It’s Jihoon, of course, one of his coworkers at the bar, but he still jumps a mile in the air and whirls to smack him. “Hyung, you asshole, don’t _do_ that.”

Jihoon just grins at him. He’s nearly as tall as Sanghyuk, with a baby-face that makes him look younger than he actually is and a bright shock of purple hair. He used to run with Wonshik’s crew before he quietly split off from them, more content with making a name for himself solo. “Watch your tone,” he replies with a waggle of his eyebrows, but he’s not being serious—even though Sanghyuk’s two years younger it’s hard to believe it, sometimes. “What _are_ you doing? You’re always on your phone these days.”

“Nothing,” he mutters, shoving his phone in his pocket and turning to tidy up the rows of spirit bottles behind the bar.

But Jihoon is not so easily dissuaded. “Boy or girl?” he asks, wrapping his arms around Sanghyuk’s waist from behind. “I know you broke up with Soomin. Is this the rebound?”

“I wish,” he says, and snaps his mouth shut instantly—but it’s too late. Once Jihoon has a hint of information, he won’t stop poking until he’s uncovered the whole story.

And over the course of their shift, that’s exactly what he does, poking and prodding until Sanghyuk gets fed up enough to tell him the whole story. Once it’s out in the open it sounds even stupider than it does in his head— _yes I might be falling for this ridiculous mystery man who’s rich enough to buy my soul_ —but Jihoon doesn’t seem to find it ridiculous. Instead he hangs on to Sanghyuk’s every word, ignoring customers in favour of listening to him, and when the whole sordid tale is out Sanghyuk catches him with one arm wrapped around his ribs. His mark is there, he realises; he’s seen it a few times.

“Why do you sound so… reluctant about it all, even though you’re obviously not?” Jihoon asks after their shift is done, trailing Sanghyuk towards the bus stop doggedly. “I see the look in your eyes when you talk about him, but you act like you’re don’t give a shit at all.”

“I just don’t want to get hurt,” he mumbles, reaching in his pocket for his cigarettes and yanking one out. “Again.”

Jihoon just watches him as he lights up and takes a drag with trembling fingers. “Probably too late for that,” he says quietly, and it’s as if he’s smacked Sanghyuk across the face, the shock is that great.

He knows it, of course. The moment Hakyeon had touched his mark and that heat had spread across his body he knew he was in too deep and was in danger of drowning. But to be presented with it so blatantly is a sting, and one he’s not sure he is ready for. He just wants to exist with Hakyeon in a void with nothing but them—no marks, no expectations. Just whatever they feel between each other. Too bad that’s just an idyllic vision.

The entire bus ride home words run through his head, tumbling end-over-end, tearing through his skin and making it so unbearable that he feels like he’s going insane by the time his stop arrives—but still he does not relent, doesn’t let himself reach for his journal. If he puts into words what he’s feeling right now, it will be impossible to deny just how deep his feelings for Hakyeon run, how attached he’s become in such a short stretch of time. Blissful ignorance is safer, and he wants to stay there for as long as possible.

 _Lord, give me strength / to resist everything he is / and everything he cannot be_ , he eventually scrawls on a blank piece of paper floating around his desk, the poem-prayer roaring through his blood.

*******

“So what’s happening?” Wonshik asks, wandering into Sanghyuk’s room on Thursday afternoon. “Are they meeting us there?”

Sanghyuk turns in his chair—he’d sat down to write but had got entirely distracted with thoughts of seeing Hakyeon again and had just ended up spacing out entirely—and shrugs. Wonshik’s dressed for busking, in a loose fitting tank-top that shows off his arms and a good bit of his chest, too—he either has a freakish resistance to cold, or he simply doesn’t care; Sanghyuk hasn’t worked it out yet—with a hat jammed low on his head already. “No, I didn’t know where you wanted to go, so I asked them to meet us here.”

“Hakyeon and Jaehwan?”

“And Taekwoon.” At Wonshik’s blank look, Sanghyuk shrugs. “His assistant, and friend, I think. Hakyeon hasn’t said much about him, to be honest.”

Wonshik raises an eyebrow. “That sounds like a _really_ romantic outing. Your boyfriend, your boyfriend’s assistant, and your boyfriend’s best friend.”

“Fuck off. He’s not even my boyfriend,” Sanghyuk snipes, throwing the nearest thing to hand—as it turns out, a pen—at Wonshik’s head and unfortunately missing. “It’s not like that. It was hardly going to be romantic with you two along, anyway.”

Shrugging, Wonshik turns to go. “And to think I was going to perform _After_ tonight,” he calls over his shoulder.

 _After_. The song Sanghyuk’d written while his rib tattoo was freshly healing, when nothing but thoughts of Youngjae were ripping through his veins and all he knew was pain. It’s a simple song, and Wonshik always manages to make it just as emotional as the first time he’d performed it—sitting on the bed with Sanghyuk as they’d gone over the lyrics, editing them together so they’d fit his flow. Wonshik’s just teasing, but in Sanghyuk’s weird mood, it hits a little close to home. How many more _After_ s will there be?

He’s pulled out of his melancholy by his phone buzzing in his pocket. _I’m here!_ the text reads, from Hakyeon (Sanghyuk had saved his name in his phone with a star emoji next to it). By the time he gets to the front door to let them in he’s trembling all over like a livewire. It’s been less than a week since he last saw Hakyeon, but the constant texting has been torturous, and the buildup of anticipation has his blood racing.

“Hey!” he says, slamming the door open, realising too late that he’s practically shouting.

Hakyeon is standing there. Jaehwan and the man that must be Taekwoon are, too, but Sanghyuk only has eyes for Hakyeon; he looks disgustingly, _sinfully_ good in the black turtleneck and black trousers he’s wearing—paired with some kind of leather body harness on top that has Sanghyuk’s eyes shooting skyward for a moment so he doesn’t actually keel over. “Did Jaehwan dress you again?” he breathes, leaning forward and looping his fingers around the nearest strap to drag Hakyeon in to a kiss that’s searing despite, or maybe perhaps because of, the company that’s standing around watching them.

“He did,” Hakyeon replies, and rests his hand on Sanghyuk’s cheek before smiling crookedly. “Hello.”

At this Sanghyuk takes a step back, aware he’s just flung himself at Hakyeon in front of company. Jaehwan, for his part, just looks amused, and gives Sanghyuk a little wave; Taekwoon looks disapproving. “Hello,” Sanghyuk says, veering around Hakyeon to offer Taekwoon his hand to shake. “I’m Sanghyuk. Pleased to meet you.”

“Taekwoon,” he says, gripping Sanghyuk’s hand firmly, his lips twitching in what might be a smile, if Sanghyuk squints. “Nice to meet you too.”

There’s the shuffling of feet behind him that indicates Wonshik and Hongbin have made an appearance, and with relief Sanghyuk introduces everyone, gripping tightly onto Hakyeon’s hand as Wonshik and Taekwoon size each other up. They are absolutely absurd in a surrealist way that has Sanghyuk pressing his lips together so he doesn’t start laughing out loud. Taekwoon is lanky and slim, wearing a suit (albeit minus the tie), and Wonshik is the very image of Mr. Muscled and Tatted in his barely-there tank top and hat that makes it hard to see his eyes. But Wonshik gives Taekwoon a big grin, the one he always uses with strangers that he’s decided he’s going to try and like, and to Sanghyuk’s surprise Taekwoon smiles back.

“I’m gonna get changed,” he whispers into Hakyeon’s ear, pressing a kiss to his earlobe for good measure. “You’ve shown me up.”

“This is through no fault of my own, trust me,” Hakyeon replies dryly—but then Sanghyuk’s slipping away, darting to his room and standing in front of his open wardrobe like it has something new to show him. What the hell does he have that can one-up a body harness?

By the time he makes his way out again everyone’s settled in the living room, scattered on the sofa or on the floor—making it very easy to see how their eyebrows raise in sync at his outfit. He’s wearing his most ripped-up pair of black jeans and, underneath, fishnet tights (he doesn’t even know why he owns them, but they’re coming in handy now), paired with a relatively oversized tshirt and black boots. It’s a stupid outfit and one that makes him look like he’d be better off in some goth BDSM club than busking, but then, he supposes, he matches Hakyeon. “I’m ready!” he says brightly, watching Hakyeon’s face very closely.

He’d expected Hakyeon to laugh, or maybe bite his lip, but the lust that swims onto his features is as clear as day and it sends a pang of arousal right down Sanghyuk’s spine. If the expression on his face is any clue, Hakyeon’s thinking of throwing Sanghyuk down onto the floor right here and now and doing all number of filthy things to him— _fuck,_ this was a bad idea. They have to be around company for the next few hours. How in the hell are they going to keep their hands off each other? How can Sanghyuk stand under the weight of Hakyeon’s desire, so thick and heady he can taste it in the air? How will they survive each other?

“Sanghyuk,” Wonshik calls, startling the both of them out of whatever mental spiral they were heading down in unison. “Why the fuck do you two look like you’re going to some kinky sex club instead of a wholesome busking outing?”

“Uh,” Sanghyuk answers slowly, because his limbs feel fuzzy and he’s not sure he’s entirely _here_. “Jaehwan hyung’s fault?”

Jaehwan rolls his eyes and slumps even further down on the sofa, starfishing his limbs in indignant protest. “Oh, yeah, blame Jaehwan hyung, it’s always Jaehwan hyung’s fault, all I’m trying to do is get Hakyeon hyung laid and—”

Lunging for him, Hakyeon claps a hand over Jaehwan’s mouth, kneeing him in the gut at the same time. “Shall we go?” he says sweetly, looking between Sanghyuk and Wonshik and Hongbin with an expression like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, despite Jaehwan wriggling and groaning underneath him.

It takes some rearranging for them to all fit in the Jeep—Taekwoon looks at it skeptically and shoots a glare at Hakyeon, one that Sanghyuk can’t interpret—before Hongbin gets in the boot and Taekwoon takes the front passenger seat next to Wonshik, leaving Sanghyuk pressed between Hakyeon and Jaehwan in the back. And that would be fine, really, it would be, except Hakyeon puts his hand on Sanghyuk’s thigh and keeps it there for the whole journey, and all Sanghyuk can think about is the heat of his palm and how his fingers are slightly digging into Sanghyuk’s flesh and how badly he wants that hand to move up, even _with_ Jaehwan sitting next to them. It’s agonising and excruciating in the sweetest way, made even more so by the fact that, when they turn and look at each other, Sanghyuk can see his own desire mirrored in Hakyeon’s eyes and knows he feels the exact same. The only thing that makes it tolerable is the fact that he knows at some point tonight he’ll be spread out on a bed while Hakyeon moves in him, and it’s only this that keeps him from tipping over the edge of insanity entirely.

“Right,” Wonshik starts, clapping his hands together once they’ve found a parking spot. “Who’s gonna carry the speaker?”

He says this to the group but is looking at Sanghyuk expectantly, and with dismay he realises, as he looks around their little circle, that he’s the youngest here. Being obedient for once in his life, he takes the cue and hauls the speaker into his arms, ducking his head when Wonshik reaches out to ruffle his hair before slamming the boot shut and starting off in the direction of the busking spots. Sanghyuk finds himself falling into step next to Taekwoon, who stares at him openly and unabashedly, not seeming to care that it’s rude. He gets the vibe that Taekwoon’s not quite sure how to feel about him yet, and Sanghyuk bites back a smile. He and Wonshik are alike, it seems, even though they don’t look it. Still, even if Taekwoon seems cold, he’s one of Hakyeon’s friends, so Sanghyuk’s going to make an effort. “So how did you meet Hakyeon?” he starts, figuring that’s a safe way to start conversation.

But Taekwoon looks at the ground and—there it is again, that smile-that-might-not-be-a-smile. “He hired me,” he says, and before Sanghyuk can apologise turns and properly smiles at him. It’s restrained, but it’s a smile, and maybe, just maybe, they’re getting somewhere. “Never thought I’d be friends with my boss, but here we are.”

Sanghyuk thinks about Jiho, about how he sometimes comes over and they all drink beer and talk shit, about how Sanghyuk’s been clubbing with him hundreds of times, and nods. “Yeah, same,” he says absentmindedly, and then shakes himself free out of weird affectionate thoughts of Jiho. “What’s he like at work?” he asks instead, nodding at Hakyeon, one arm wrapped around Jaehwan’s waist as they skip behind Wonshik and Hongbin. “Like… is he an asshole, like how CEOs are meant to be? Or is he nice?”

He can tell, by the surprised look Taekwoon shoots him, that he wasn’t expecting that question, and for a few moments they trudge along in silence. “He’s… businesslike,” Taekwoon says, and it looks like he’s mulling over the words. “Not particularly warm, but not unfeeling, either. Just very distant and professional. As a CEO should be, I suppose. Behind closed doors, though, he’s just… normal.” Taekwoon shrugs. “He’s more animated around you, though.”

He knows that Taekwoon is offering him something here, a sliver of information, and Sanghyuk files it away with all the other precious memories of Hakyeon, things he knows will stick with him no matter how this ends. He doesn’t even get a chance to respond, though, because then Taekwoon turns his shrewd gaze on him. “And Hakyeon tells me you’re a poet.”

“Oh, I… I try,” he says weakly, already feeling himself starting to blush. “I mean, I don’t think I’m any _good_ , but… yeah.”

Taekwoon quirks an eyebrow. “That’s not what Hakyeon says.”

His heart skips a beat at that, and then he almost goes tripping over his own feet when he nearly runs into Jaehwan from behind—they’ve arrived, and Wonshik beckons him over to take the speaker from his arms. He and Hongbin immediately begin their well-oiled routine of setting up the speaker, plugging in the mic, organising the leads; they’ve done this so many times that they could probably do it in their sleep.

“So…” Jaehwan starts as they stand there as a foursome, watching them. “What the hell do we do now?”

“Watch, for now. Hongbin will be Wonshik’s MC,” Sanghyuk explains. “It’s pretty early, but as it gets later, crowds will gather naturally.” He points down the street, where he can see a group of dancers stretching, someone setting up a speaker in the exact same manner as Hongbin and Wonshik. “And then Wonshik’ll do his thing. He doesn’t get paid or anything. But people film it and upload it to their social networks. It’s good exposure. Some buskers that come here a lot have their own groups of fans that show up and stuff.”

“And Wonshik?”

Grinning, Sanghyuk waggles his finger at Jaehwan. “Nuh-uh. He’s Ravi now. And yeah, he has fans.” He nods at a small gaggle of girls that he vaguely recognises loitering some distance away, shamelessly ogling Wonshik and Hongbin as they set up. “He already posted about it on twitter, so they were waiting when we got here.”

“Wow,” Hakyeon murmurs, taking a step closer to Sanghyuk and sliding an arm around his waist, ignoring the look that Taekwoon gives him. “I didn’t know it was so… involved.”

Sanghyuk shrugs. “He isn’t signed to a label, so he has to do all this stuff himself, to get his name out there. It’s pretty thankless.”

He can tell, by the expression on their faces, that they didn’t realise that this is what Sanghyuk meant by busking—but, well, what _did_ they expect? When Wonshik starts performing they all gather around him in a circle, and just as Sanghyuk had expected, a crowd starts forming almost immediately, helped by the squealing girls who rush over when Wonshik picks up the mic to say, “Hi everyone, I’m Ravi.”

Jaehwan and Hakyeon get into it straight away, having learnt from their previous experience; they bop along with their arms wrapped around each other, grinning madly as Wonshik raps. Taekwoon stands there stiffly for the first few songs, his arms folded over his chest, before Hakyeon barrels into him and grabs his hands to wave them in the air, and the most fascinating thing happens right before Sanghyuk’s eyes—Taekwoon starts laughing wildly, his whole face transforming, and within a minute he’s draped over Jaehwan deliberately, it seems, to annoy him.

“He’s a bit weird with new people,” Hakyeon says over Wonshik’s rapping, sidling up to Sanghyuk and giving him a fright, catching him staring. “But once he opens up, he’s as much of a softy as Jaehwan is.”

Sanghyuk reaches for Hakyeon’s hand and marvels at the way their palms slide together—palms, psalms, _Lord, give me strength_. He isn’t even religious, but when he’s faced with the feelings that Hakyeon evokes in him, he almost wants to believe. “Yeah, he’s kinda hard to read.”

“I think he’s a bit like Wonshik in that way. I wasn’t sure he liked me at first.” Hakyeon smiles, like he knows that’s what Sanghyuk was worrying about—and it was, but how he knows that Sanghyuk’s got no idea.

Before he can even open his mouth to respond, though, the song ends, and over the sounds of clapping erupting from the small crowd all around them Sanghyuk can hear the familiar piano chords of the beginning of _After_ and his heart starts racing. “Hakyeon hyung, maybe we should—”

“This song is called _After_ ,” Wonshik says, taking his hat off his head and running a hand through his hair so everyone can see his face. “A good friend of mine wrote the lyrics for this one.”

But it’s too late. He can feel Hakyeon staring at him, but he looks resolutely straight ahead instead of meeting his gaze as Wonshik starts. This song is emotional, raw, and while that’s fine when it’s strangers hearing it who don’t know the context, it’s different when it’s Hakyeon and he knows. In front of them Jaehwan and Taekwoon are swaying gently back and forth to the music, but Sanghyuk just stands there, stiff and unmoving until Hakyeon squeezes his hand, tugging him closer. “Yours?” he whispers, and Sanghyuk nods.

He doesn’t say anything further after that. The song ends with more applause from everyone around them—sombre applause, but applause nonetheless—but Sanghyuk doesn’t feel any better. They’re clapping for Wonshik, and, honestly, they should be. They may be Sanghyuk’s words, but it’s the way Wonshik performs them that matters, and he always seems to take the pain Sanghyuk gave him on that folded sheet of paper and amplify it so it’s a thousand times worse, ringing through his voice.

Sanghyuk can sense that Hakyeon’s trying to work out what to say, and luckily he’s given a reprieve from whatever he comes up with—Wonshik catches his eye through the crowd and makes a drinking gesture. “Gotta go get hyung a drink,” he murmurs to Hakyeon, still unable to meet his eyes as he slips away back through the crowd, marvelling at how easy it is to disappear from view.

He finds a coffee shop and orders—a large iced americano, the same thing Wonshik has always gotten and will always get even though it’s night time—while desperately trying to ignore the heavy feeling in his stomach. He’s not even sure why he feels so miserable all of a sudden, only that dread is now wreathing him like a cloak, familiar in its coldness. Perhaps it’s the usual feelings that _After_ awakens in him combined with his fear at losing Hakyeon, because that’s what this is, now; he’s petrified that this will all end, that they don’t match after all, that it’s all just another lie. This feels different to all the other times, but he’d been so trusting then, too. What is the truth and what is a lie? He doesn’t even know what to believe, anymore, seeing as he barely trusts the signals his body is giving him and even his head is susceptible to the tricks his heart plays.

He’s lost in these thoughts when someone touches him on the shoulder, and some deep part of him recognises the touch as Hakyeon’s; he leans back into him straight away, sighs as Hakyeon presses the softest of kisses to his temple, not seeming to care that they’re in public. “That song is beautiful,” he whispers, and Sanghyuk’s heart begins to hurt. “You don’t have to hide your pain, Sanghyuk. It made you who you are today.”

Sanghyuk doesn’t even try to hide his pain. He uses it as armour, wraps it around himself—both figuratively and literally, in the form of his tattoos—as a warning for everyone to stay away. But Hakyeon knows this; he’s traced the lines of the snake on his ribs, has kissed every flower down his arm, has seen him for exactly what he is, scars and all. It’s this that Hakyeon is saying he accepts, and it’s this that makes Sanghyuk turn on the spot to hug him, some of his fears assuaged, for now. “Thanks, hyung. It’s a… really personal thing for me, I guess.”

“I can see,” Hakyeon murmurs into Sanghyuk’s neck, and then squeezes him gently. “I think your coffee is ready.”

Only feeling slightly embarrassed and very satisfied, Sanghyuk pulls away to grab the coffee, ignoring the raised eyebrow from the girl who hands it to him— _in public?_ her eyes seem to say—before grabbing Hakyeon’s hand once more to tug him gently out of the store.

The rest of Wonshik’s set passes in a blur, and Sanghyuk’s glad it’s a happy one and not a glum one. Taekwoon’s smile doesn’t even dim when Sanghyuk bumps into him accidentally. Instead he just wraps one arm around Sanghyuk’s shoulders to give him a friendly squeeze before letting him loose once more, leaving Sanghyuk wide-eyed but pleasantly surprised. It seems he just needed time to warm up to them and isn’t an asshole after all, not that Sanghyuk really thought so in the first place. By the time Wonshik says goodnight to the crowd, all four of them are grinning widely at each other, buoyant on the fun evening out and by Wonshik’s infectious enthusiasm. Sanghyuk doesn’t even complain when Wonshik directs him to take the speaker as they start back to the car; he just doesn’t care.

“You’re really good,” Jaehwan says as they’re walking, clapping Wonshik on the shoulder heartily. “Like, really good. Have you ever thought of going on that _Show Me the Money_ show? I bet you’d win, dude.”

“I’ve thought about it.” Wonshik shrugs nonchalantly, but he’s glowing under the praise, Sanghyuk can tell. “But it would make me feel like a sellout, I guess. I wanna get there under my own steam or not at all. No shortcuts.”

He and Sanghyuk share a similar attitude towards their art. Hongbin doesn’t get it—in fact, he’s rolling his eyes now as Wonshik speaks—but it’s something they’ve stuck true to all these years, since Sanghyuk was winning poetry competitions in high school and Wonshik was bunking off class to practice rapping with their classmates.

“I can respect that,” Jaehwan says, nodding. “I’m the same with my paintings. I use a fake name when I’m selling them and everything.”

“You paint?” Sanghyuk asks, shifting his grip on the speaker.

Hakyeon whirls so he’s walking backwards and wags his finger disapprovingly, but he’s smiling, so the gesture has no weight to it at all. “He _says_ he does, but he spends most of his time annoying me and Taekwoon, so I doubt the validity of that statement.”

What ensues is what Sanghyuk can only describe as a playfight that turns into a scuffle, ending with Jaehwan begging for mercy as he wriggles in Hakyeon’s gasp, the both of them laughing so hard they can barely see where they’re going and are stumbling all over the place. Taekwoon rolls his eyes affectionately at the sight, so much love evident in just that one gesture, and Sanghyuk wonders how fate brought together three so very different people.

“Where next?” Wonshik asks once they’re back at the car, twirling the keys on his finger.

Hakyeon looks at Sanghyuk, then at Jaehwan, and shrugs. “Back to mine? We can order pizza and play video games or something, if you want?”

“Sure,” Wonshik and Hongbin say in sync, that creepy way matched couples do sometimes, and Sanghyuk just nods, albeit less enthusiastically. That one evening spent in Hakyeon’s apartment was wonderful but terrifying, and he doesn’t know how Wonshik and Hongbin will react to so much blatant wealth on display.

Hakyeon has to sit up the front to give directions, which means Sanghyuk gets to drive—Wonshik opens his mouth to protest, but the dirty look Sanghyuk shoots him quickly makes him close it again—and he spends most of the drive listening to the conversation behind him with only half an ear. He’s too busy paying attention to the roads and, more importantly, to Hakyeon’s hand linked in his, meaning that whenever he needs to change gears they do it together. He doesn’t miss the way Jaehwan sniggers every time it happens, either. He just chooses to ignore it.

“You can park in the guest parking,” Hakyeon murmurs as they drive down the ramp into the carpark, the security guard peering worriedly at the car—years older and with a shitload more rust than anything else in here, Sanghyuk knows—before smiling with relief as he sees Hakyeon waving at him through the window. “Over there.”

He points at a bay of mostly-empty spots, the only other spot occupied by a ridiculous supercar, low and mean-looking. As he pulls on the handbrake he hears Hongbin and Wonshik gasp in unison as they spot it, and winces. He’d conveniently forgotten their shared interest (obsession, really) with cars, although Wonshik is more fervent about it than Hongbin is. Sure enough, as they slide out of the car, Wonshik makes a beeline for it and points giddily. “Is this yours?”

Hakyeon shakes his head, pressing his lips together in that funny way that Sanghyuk is learning means he’s trying to hide his smile. “No, I don’t know whose that is. Mine are over here.”

Sanghyuk can’t even look at the Rolls Royce without remembering what happened the last time he was in it—and when he’s been on the edge of hard all night thanks to the fucking harness Hakyeon’s wearing, it’s just too much—so he stares at the Porsche instead, satisfied that he’s able to identify it. Wonshik doesn’t even look at it, however. He makes a beeline for the car parked next to it and touches the bonnet reverently, like he’s touching a holy relic; he looks near on the verge of tears. “Is this… a P1?” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Hakyeon replies easily, running his hand over the bonnet with affection. “I don’t get to drive her much, but she’s my baby.”

Sanghyuk tunes out the rest of the discussion they have on the cars—which, thankfully, doesn’t last very long, since Taekwoon seems to be the only other one present who doesn’t give a shit about cars either and ushers them all towards the lifts—and, when the lift deposits them directly into Hakyeon’s penthouse apartment, heads for the kitchen, ignoring the tour that Hakyeon starts giving the others.

He’s guzzling down a second glass of water when Wonshik comes up behind him, touches him on the shoulder gently. “I get it now.”

“What do you mean?”

“There were only 375 P1s ever made. That would have cost…. something like one and a half  _billion_ won,” Wonshik whispers, his eyes wider than Sanghyuk’s ever seen them. “I understand where you’re coming from now.”

His smugness at finally getting through to him at how stupidly rich Hakyeon is is smothered by blind panic—one and a half billion won? For a _car?_ For a car that he just admitted he doesn’t even drive that much? What the fuck? Those numbers don’t even make _sense_ to Sanghyuk. He can’t fit them together in his head. The fact that Hakyeon can just throw away that much money and still have this much left over… He has to put his hand on the counter to steady himself, because all of a sudden his world is spinning a little bit. “Jesus,” he croaks, feeling his world shift on its axis yet again. He knew Hakyeon was that rich, of course. But having concrete evidence of it in the form of numbers is hard to deal with, to say the least.

And of course Hakyeon walks in at that, the others all trailing behind him. He gives Sanghyuk a concerned glance—Sanghyuk attempts a smile back, but it’s hollow—before spreading his arms wide and grinning. “Who wants a drink?”

“Me,” Sanghyuk says feebly, still feeling like he’s almost about to fall over.

Which is how how he finds himself on Hakyeon’s sofa an hour and three beers later, cheering on Wonshik as he grips a Nintendo Switch controller so hard it looks like he’s about to crack the plastic. Jaehwan’s on his feet, screeching at the top of his lungs—at some point in the past hour he’s shed his shirt for seemingly no reason at all, not seeming to care that his mark is now visible, a cute little cactus outline on his shoulderblade that makes Sanghyuk smile whenever he catches sight of it—and Hongbin’s practically on top of Wonshik in his excitement. Taekwoon, who Wonshik is playing Mario Kart against, looks cool and collected in comparison, an easy smile on his lips that belies the way he’s jiggling his leg incessantly. It’s hilarious, made even moreso when Wonshik wins and starts jumping up and down on the sofa like Tom Cruise, whipping off his shirt and chest-bumping Jaehwan in some weird spontaneous ritual that has everyone rolling with laughter.

He never expected the six of them to work together, but somehow, they do. There’s been no awkwardness all evening, and even Taekwoon and Wonshik, the two most guarded of them all, have seemingly come out of their shells. Sanghyuk’s calmer now, thanks to the beers, and instead of having an anxiety freak-out about Hakyeon’s money (although he can feel that he will have one, at some point in the future; it’s inevitable) he’s snuggled up next to him on the sofa, happy to just feel the warmth of his body. Filled with beer and pizza, surrounded by friends old and new, he allows himself to relax into the happiness that he’s been deliberately denying himself for so long, for fear that it would all come crashing down around him.

“What’re you looking at?” he murmurs, looking up at Hakyeon.

Hakyeon smiles and delicately rearranges some of the hair on Sanghyuk’s forehead—it’s getting ridiculously long at this point and he needs to get it cut—before cupping his chin. “You,” he says, and just that one word is tinged with so much affection that Sanghyuk, forgetting about everyone and everything else, leans up and kisses him.

It starts chaste, because he means it to, but then Hakyeon’s hand skims down his back to grab his ass, and then before he knows it they’re making out on the sofa while the others yell, make gagging noises, and then start throwing things. They break apart only somewhat guiltily, and Sanghyuk takes the pillow that Jaehwan had thrown at them and pegs it at his head, laughing when he ducks in time and it goes sailing across the room. They probably shouldn’t have done that, not least because Sanghyuk’s now tingling all over with desire, desire that spikes whenever he meets Hakyeon’s eyes—dark with lust, as his must be—and shivers won’t stop running down his spine.

“I think we should get going,” Hongbin sighs a while later (Sanghyuk’s stopped paying attention, if he’s honest) after he’s lost to Jaehwan yet again. “My pride can’t take any more losses.”

As if acting on some unspoken signal, everyone gets to their feet at once, and Sanghyuk catches Taekwoon, Wonshik and Hongbin exchanging knowing glances between each other. Considering Taekwoon’s been showing his mark openly all night, Sanghyuk guesses he’s matched, which means they’re all commiserating on some annoying ‘we’re matched’ wavelength that he just isn’t privy to. It’s hardly fair, but it’s not like he can do anything about it.

“You too,” Hakyeon says, smacking Jaehwan—who’s still lying on one of the sofas as the others all pull on their coats—gently on the thigh.

“I’m staying,” he replies, stretching out even further.

Hakyeon exchanges a long stare with Sanghyuk—he does not have to be a mind reader to understand that Hakyeon wants Jaehwan gone and is wondering how to say so, politely—but is saved by Taekwoon ambling over and grabbing Jaehwan’s ankle to start pulling him off the sofa. “Trust me, you don’t want to stay,” he murmurs with a knowing wink in their direction, and Sanghyuk blushes down to his toes.

Jaehwan bitches and moans the whole time but doesn’t seem too genuine about it, even giving Sanghyuk a friendly hug goodbye, and then the lift doors shut on the four of them waving, and they’re gone, and Sanghyuk is alone with Hakyeon at last. He turns and speeds across the floor towards where Hakyeon is standing, next to the piano, his world narrowed down to Hakyeon and nothing but Hakyeon, needing to touch him.

“Wait.” Hakyeon stops Sanghyuk with a hand on his chest, holding him at arm’s length. “I have something for you.”

“I can’t wait,” Sanghyuk murmurs, because he can’t. If he spends one more minute looking at Hakyeon in that harness his eyes are going to melt or his blood is going to boil or something totally ridiculous will happen, because now that they’re alone the lust that’s been thrumming under the surface of his skin all night has exploded into being. But then the words sink through the fog of need, and he stops pressing against Hakyeon’s hand. “Wait, what do you mean?”

Wordlessly Hakyeon takes Sanghyuk’s hand and tugs him towards his bedroom, only dropping his hand to rummage through his chest-of-drawers. It gives Sanghyuk an opportunity to look around the room, something he hadn’t done the last time he was in here because he was focused on the way his skin was buzzing with the touch of Hakyeon’s skin to his. He _had_ noticed the huge floor-to-ceiling windows last time, and it’s these that he’s drawn to once more. When he peers out he can see that Hakyeon can see not only the river from his bed but also the skyline of the city and the mountains beyond, and it nearly makes his legs go wobbly again. It’s a gorgeous view, but at what cost? He turns away to survey the rest of the room, not wanting to spend too long peering at the river lest he starts getting melancholy once more; it’s tidy and clean but with a somewhat clinical air, devoid of personal touches. It could almost be a hotel room, save for a framed photo on the bedside table of Hakyeon with his arms wrapped around Jaehwan and Taekwoon, all three of them smiling widely. It’s really cute, and when Hakyeon turns Sanghyuk waves it in the air. “Keeping them close, huh?”

“They’re all I’ve got,” Hakyeon says softly, a wry smile on his face. “Here,” he continues, holding out a small black box, wrapped with a silver ribbon.

Sanghyuk’s heart drops into his stomach as he takes the box—what the hell could it be? More importantly, how much did it cost? Too much for him to ever reciprocate in kind, most likely. Holding his breath and not knowing what to expect, he tugs at the ribbon and pulls the lid off the box to reveal a plain black band of leather. When he pulls it out he finds that the leather is buttery to the touch, supple under his fingers; the buckle to close it is silver, the cool of the metal grounding him. It’s a beautiful thing, and he knows instantly what it’s for. As soulmarks seem to end up on most people’s extremities rather than their torsos, for reasons unknown, there are a heap of different options out there to cover them up. Hakyeon got lucky; his fits neatly under his watch band. Sanghyuk wasn’t as fortunate. Because his is on the middle of his forearm he could either find a piece of jewellery like the one he’s got in his hand or he could wrap it with a bandage, and the bandage is just easier (and cheaper). It also has the unintended but not unwelcome side effect of broadcasting to the world just the extent of the toll his mark has taken on him and how agonised he is over it… so to say he’s attached to his stupid bandages would be an understatement.

He wants to say _I don’t deserve this_. He wants to tell Hakyeon that he shouldn’t be buying probably ridiculously expensive things like this just in case they don’t match. But the words die in his throat when he looks up and sees that Hakyeon, for the first time since Sanghyuk’s known him, is just as unsure about this as he is. It’s this that makes his heart skip a beat—Hakyeon is letting down his defenses, one by one—and it’s this that makes him smile, weighing the band in his hand. “Turn around,” he whispers, and Hakyeon’s eyes widen in realisation before he does as he’s told.

Moving quickly, Sanghyuk unravels the bandage from around his mark, lets it drop to the floor. He only leaves it uncovered for a moment, just to take in the image of it standing starkly out against the pale of his skin (after so many years of constant bandages, he has a rather amusing tan line), Hakyeon in front of him, his wrist hanging by his side, so close and yet so far.

The band fits perfectly when he slides it into place and does up the clasp and he looks at it for a moment, taking it in. “You can look,” he says, and Hakyeon turns.

“What do you think?”

He turns his arm back and forth, scrutinising it from every angle. “I… really like it, actually. It’s beautiful.” He meets Hakyeon’s eyes and takes a slow step closer. “Thank you.”

“It suits you,” Hakyeon mutters, “more than that bandage ever did.”

Sanghyuk’s world explodes into light the moment Hakyeon wraps an hand around the band and he sways into the older man, unable to hold up his own weight anymore. The thin leather transmits the heat of Hakyeon’s skin more than the bandages ever did, and it is excruciating and exquisite all at once; he cannot stand it but loves every second of this sweet torture, wants more. The lust slams into him once more in full force, but it’s dulled now, has become a sweet slow-burning wave instead of an all-consuming wildfire. This he can control. This he revels in as they fall to the bed, Hakyeon burying his head in the crook of Sanghyuk’s neck to lick, to bite; it’s all Sanghyuk can do to hold onto that stupid fucking harness and continue to breathe, because he feels like his world is ending and he loves every moment of it.

“Sanghyuk?”

“Hmm?”

Hakyeon pushes himself up so he’s sitting on top of Sanghyuk, and gently reaches for his left arm. “What do these mean?” he asks, trailing the tips of his fingers over the flowers, from wrist to forearm to elbow to bicep to shoulder and back down again. “When did you get them?”

He has to take a moment to think through the lust permeating him down to his core, to travel back through all of his painful memories—and all of his sweet ones, too—to the story of his sleeve. “They’re chrysanthemums,” he whispers, placing both his hands on Hakyeon’s hips. “Red chrysanthemums symbolise deep passion and yellow chrysanthemums symbolise sorrow and unrequited love… To me it seems like you can’t have one without the other. I don’t know why I didn’t get them in colour. Just seemed nicer in black and white, I suppose.”

“Is there any part of you that isn’t an emo stereotype?” Hakyeon asks, but he’s smiling, and Sanghyuk just rolls his eyes. “They’re beautiful, though.” He touches the tattoo on Sanghyuk’s right arm, the inside of his bicep, his wave. “And this one?”

“Do you know Hart Crane?”

Hakyeon’s eyes widen as he stares at the tattoo, and the moment it clicks Sanghyuk can see it on his face. “‘Light wrestling there incessantly with light,”’ he murmurs, tugging Sanghyuk gently up into a sitting position. “Star kissing star through wave on wave unto—’”

“‘Your body rocking!’” Sanghyuk finishes with a small smile. “It’s my favourite poem and I wanted to get something inspired by it. What’s yours?”

“My favourite poem? Oh, that’s a hard one.” Hakyeon presses a kiss to Sanghyuk’s lips, but it’s an afterthought; his face is drawn as he thinks. “‘O how thy worth with manners may I sing,’” he says eventually, and now it’s Sanghyuk’s turn to think. Where does he know this? “‘When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring, and what is’t but mine own when I praise thee?’”

Sanghyuk raises an eyebrow. “Sonnet 39? Shakespeare? How old-fashioned.”

Hakyeon shrugs, unapologetic. “The best poems are love poems, and he was the best at them. Would you rather I have answered with ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ Because you’re not anything like a summer’s day.”

“That’s the entire point of that sonnet,” Sanghyuk points out, and then pauses, catches Hakyeon’s eye, starts laughing. “Are we really having poetry discourse as foreplay?”

“I mean, that’s what happens when an ex-poet and a poet start sleeping together.” Hakyeon’s grin is wicked, if a little sad. Sanghyuk doubts anyone can really be an ex-poet, not if words beat in their blood like they do for him. He can’t imagine not ever writing. It would be torture. “But if you want to shut me up, there are better ways…”

Doing as he’s told, Sanghyuk grabs the harness to kiss Hakyeon, writhing underneath him as they slowly peel each other from their clothes. Sanghyuk is sorry to see the harness go, but considering having Hakyeon naked underneath him is the trade-off, he thinks he just might be able to live with it. The lust is coursing through him, making his movements sluggish and his eyes heavy; he can’t live without Hakyeon, can’t live without the way his blood burns in recognition, in hope, and he can’t live without the way Hakyeon sounds when Sanghyuk touches him, like every time is the first.

They don’t even end up fucking. The build-up over hours has been too slow, too torturous, and instead they just rock into each other, gasping nonsense that doesn’t even make sense, gibberish that falls from their lips as easily as lies do. Sanghyuk comes first but Hakyeon follows a moment later, arching into each other in sync—and oh, the sight of Hakyeon in the moonlight, the tendons in his neck straining and his mouth falling open is rapturous in a way that’s pure and filthy at the same time, and Sanghyuk looks at him blearily and thinks— _maybe you’re it._

Showering seems such an arduous task when he’s floppy and boneless and basking in post-coitous glow, so Hakyeon—laughing at him openly, wondering out loud how someone five years younger can become so tired after one orgasm—fetches him a damp washcloth and cleans him up before sliding into bed next to him. It’s a king-sized bed but they end up curled up together in the middle of it, clinging onto each other like they’re about to float away.

 _Maybe we are,_ Sanghyuk thinks, _and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad after all._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;-; pls forgive me for the long long long gap between updates, life caught up to me. but i haven't forgotten about this fic! i couldn't if i tried. take an extra long chapter as sorry.
> 
> also 1.5 billion won is about 1.5 million usd!
> 
> thanks for reading, as always ♡


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how can he say _there’s nothing to be afraid of_ when, for sanghyuk, there clearly is? with every moment that passes the hope that beats in hakyeon’s blood becomes more and more of a fact in his mind, but sanghyuk obviously doesn’t feel the same.

“Sanghyuk.”

He groans and pulls the pillow over his head. Too light. Hongbin? Blinds? Wonshik being an asshole? Maybe. But—someone kissing up his spine. One hand on his shoulder. Not the hyungs. “Sanghyuk, wake up.”

“No,” he mumbles, reaching for another pillow.

“Honey, darling, sweetling,” Hakyeon continues, his lips having reached the back of Sanghyuk’s neck now. “Baby, angel, light of my life—”

“Fuck off,” Sanghyuk begs, but Hakyeon’s cheesiness has the effect it intended because he rolls over and cracks an eyelid against the daylight. “Where are you going?” he croaks, because Hakyeon is freshly-showered and fully dressed in a suit and tie, a smile playing over his lips. He looks appallingly good like this, and a wave of desire rushes over Sanghyuk, despite the fact that the soft light of very early morning is filtering in through the windows.

“Work. You know, that thing that I have to do every day?” At Sanghyuk’s blank look, he rolls his eyes. “It’s a Friday. I have to go.”

“What time is it?”

“Seven.” When Sanghyuk makes a noise not unlike a gasp of horror, he starts laughing. “It’s not as bad as you think. Coffee helps. Don’t worry, you don’t have to get up. You know how to let yourself out.” Sanghyuk winces, even though Hakyeon didn’t mean it in a cruel way, didn’t mean to remind Sanghyuk of the morning he fled. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”

“Hyung,” Sanghyuk bleats as Hakyeon starts to get off the bed. He flails and catches a wrist, yanks; Hakyeon ends up nearly on top of him, his eyes wide. “Don’t go.”

Something in Hakyeon’s expression softens, and the affection there is nearly too much for Sanghyuk to handle, even sleep-addled as he is. “Don’t say things like that,” he whispers, and touches Sanghyuk’s cheek reverently. “Because Taekwoon will skin me alive if I stay home with you all day, as much as I want to.”

“Fine. Go. Leave me to my misery,” Sanghyuk huffs, closing his eyes, but he doesn’t mean it.

Hakyeon draws the blinds—they don’t do much to block out the light, but they help—before going with the ghost of a kiss to Sanghyuk’s temple, one he only just registers before falling back asleep, nothing but thoughts of Hakyeon running through his mind.

*******

By the time he wakes up, showers, gets the bus home and falls back into bed, it’s mid-morning—and when he wakes up once more it’s well into the afternoon, he feels over-tired, and Wonshik is sitting soundlessly at the end of his bed. “Hyung!” he yelps, jumping about a foot in the air and reaching for the blankets to cover himself even though Wonshik has seen him shirtless a thousand times. “What the fuck?”

“Have you searched his name yet?” Wonshik asks unblinkingly.

“What?” It takes a moment for Sanghyuk to realise what the hell Wonshik is talking about, but then their conversation last night rushes back to him—over one and a half billion won for a car; Wonshik’s shock—and he sags. “No. I don’t want to.”

“Yes you do,” Wonshik replies, confidently (and correctly). “You’re just afraid of what you might find. I didn’t care before, but now I’m curious. Who the hell is he to be able to afford a P1? And Jaehwan… he said he had _six_ cars. Six! Who the fuck needs that many?”

Wonshik’s obsession with this is spiking Sanghyuk’s own anxiety, something he really doesn’t need considering he’s just come off the back of a lovely evening and a lovely morning (as far as mornings where he’s woken up before ten _can_ be lovely) with Hakyeon and wants to keep it that way. They haven’t known each other for that long, but so far, so many of Sanghyuk’s memories of Hakyeon are tinged with his worries and feelings of inadequacy. It’d be nice if he could just have this one thing… But _one point five billion_ starts swirling around in his head and he feels how he felt last night, on the verge of a panic attack, his heart starting to race. “Don’t, hyung,” he begs, and Wonshik must sense the urgency in his voice because he freezes and stops talking immediately. “Just—don’t. I don’t want to know who he is. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Okay.” Wonshik shrugs nonchalantly and pats Sanghyuk on the leg, trying to be comforting. “I’m gonna go to the studio for the bit. Wanna come?”

Wonshik, along with a bunch of other rappers and producers, some he knows and some he doesn’t, pays to rent time in a studio for a day once a month. It’s not as often as he would like, but it’s all he can afford without spending all his free time at the bar, so whenever it’s his allotted time one of the others often accompanies him to help out if needed so he gets the most use out of his time. While sometimes it’s fun, Sanghyuk’s now too keyed-up to even think about going. He’d just be a nuisance, and they’d just get on each other’s nerves, and then they’d end up fighting, which doesn’t happen very often but when it does it’s horrible. So Sanghyuk just shakes his head no, and Wonshik leaves without another word, giving him a wave as he goes.

The lack of his presence doesn’t alleviate Sanghyuk’s fears any, however. Instead it seems he’s just ignited the spark that had dimmed last night, the one that’s been waiting since he first saw Hakyeon, leaning up against a car that Sanghyuk had only seen in magazines (to this day he’ll still never understand how he recognised Hakyeon without even hearing him speak, but somehow he did). It’s the spark of unworthiness, of panic at not being good enough, and the more he’s tried to suppress it the stronger it has grown. He deliberately turns away from his phone, laying innocently on his bedside table. He _won’t_ search for Hakyeon’s name. It doesn’t matter how rich he is, it doesn’t matter which publishing house he owns. All that matters is the look in his eyes whenever he sees Sanghyuk, the noises he makes when Sanghyuk makes him come.

This is what he tells himself as he gets up and stumbles to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, but even to himself it all sounds desperately hollow, and he knows he won’t be able to go on living in ignorance for very much longer.

*******

Wonshik doesn’t come home at all that night—not surprising, considering he usually sleeps at the studio when it’s his turn—and so Sanghyuk next sees him a full twenty-four hours later when he hauls himself out to the kitchen, intending to make himself coffee and finding Wonshik standing at the counter doing just that. They regard each other for a moment, the both of them bleary and still half asleep, before Sanghyuk holds up his phone. “Wanna?”

Raising an eyebrow, Wonshik pours the coffee into two mugs and hands one to Sanghyuk. “Are you sure about this?”

Not at all, but considering he hasn’t been able to think about anything else since Wonshik left—and he’d tried, really, he had, he’d even tried to write and couldn’t come up with anything since all he could think of was _who are you?_ —he figures he’d best get it out of the way. “Yeah,” he lies instead, handing Wonshik the phone and coming to stand next to him. “You do it, so my conscience can rest easy.”

As Sanghyuk takes a big swallow of the coffee and winces at its bitterness, Wonshik weighs the phone in his hand for a moment, considering. “Whoever he is… don’t freak out, okay?” he says, his tone low and serious. “Whatever this says it doesn’t change who he is. You know who he is. This is just numbers.”

It’s a bit late for him to be saying this, since it’s his freakout over the car that had triggered this in the first place, but Sanghyuk understands what he’s trying to say. Whatever he’s expecting, surely it can’t be that bad, right? This is what he tells himself as he takes another swig of the coffee, watching as Wonshik navigates to naver and clicks on the search bar. “What’s his name?”

“Cha Hakyeon.”

“Cha Hakyeon… Okay, here we go,” Wonshik mumbles as the page loads. “Oh, hey, there’s a photo. Cool.” It’s a very professional-looking photo of Hakyeon staring, unsmiling, into the camera—almost looks like an ID photo, actually. When Wonshik clicks his name, his profile is brought up on the screen and he begins to read it out loud under his breath. “Cha Hakyeon… Date of birth 30th June 1990. Hometown Changwon. CEO of Wisdom House Publishing… Let me see…”

The phone clatters from his hand to the countertop, but Sanghyuk’s seen enough. His heart had sank the moment he’d seen those words— _Wisdom House Publishing_ —but the second Wonshik had clicked through to the page and brought up profits it had shattered entirely. He’s not even sure he’s present right now. Maybe this is what an out-of-body experience is like, like he’s not the one controlling his own hands as he reaches for the phone calmly, shoving it back in his pocket. “Sanghyuk,” Wonshik whispers, his eyes wide. “Your boyfriend is a trillionaire.”

 _$1.7 billion USD. ₩1.9 trillion KRW_. The numbers swim in front of his eyes, and he turns without saying another word, heading back to his room dreamily. He sinks to his knees in front of his bed to reach underneath it and pull out the dusty cardboard box he’s been toting around for years now, opens it up. Wonshik, who’s followed him in, sees what he’s doing and drops to the floor next to him, reaching for the box, trying to take it away. “Don’t—”

“Fuck off,” Sanghyuk snarls, but it’s not him saying it; something has taken control of his body and it’s all he can do to hang along for the ride. Disassociation, he knows what it is, but having a name for it doesn’t make it any better.

The latest one is right on top and he pulls it out, sets it aside carefully. It’s only a few months old. _One_. The next one is a little harder to find, but he recognises the logo on the letterhead and pulls it out, puts it on top of the other one carefully, caresses it for a second— _two_ —before flicking nearly to the bottom, finding the last two he was looking for— _three, four_. They’re both creased and a little worse for wear, but he pulls them out regardless, his movements methodical. Put the lid back on the box. Slide the box under the bed. Hand Wonshik those four letters dreamily— _Dear Han Sanghyuk. We regret to inform you your work has not been chosen for publication at this time,_ over and over in different wording—and sits back, like he’s pleased with himself. He isn’t, of course. He feels strangely numb and anguished, all at once. Detached. That’s the word he’s looking for.

Wonshik flicks through the four letters and sets them aside. “Don’t,” he says again, taking Sanghyuk by the shoulders. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop it. The money doesn’t matter. He’s still your Hakyeon. And those letters don’t matter, either. It wasn’t him calling the shots—”

“Don’t you _dare_ say they don’t matter!” Sanghyuk explodes at last, the numbness shattering and giving way into anguish, so sharp he’s breathless as he grabs the letters and shakes them in Wonshik’s face. “How can you fucking say that when you know what these mean to me?”

It was meant to get easier. That’s what he read online, at least, posted by thousands of others who were in the same boat as him. _The first letter is the hardest, but by the fiftieth, you get used to it and it’s not so bad!_ But they were lying, because each letter— _you’re not good enough! Good fucking luck!_ —hurt just as much as the one before it, and these four hurt most of all. Hakyeon’s voice is winding through his mind (“we filled a niche that wasn’t filled before, and the company grew fast”) and he feels like he could howl with laughter. Wisdom House Publishing. Their specialty is poetry. And he was never good enough.

“I know what they mean to you, but it’s not Hakyeon’s fault—” Wonshik’s saying, and then cuts himself off when Sanghyuk gets to his feet, yanking his pyjama shirt over his head and rummaging through the drawer for a clean one. “What the hell are you doing?”

“I have to see him.” He pulls a shirt over his head, not caring it’s probably inside-out, and grabs a pair of jeans from the drawer below. “I just—I can’t do this.”

“You’re overreacting.” He hates how calm and reasonable Wonshik sounds, when he is dying inside—it’s just too much, all of it, too fucking much and his vision starts blurring with tears that he will not let fall. “It’s just money, Sanghyuk. It’s just a company. It doesn’t matter, and it’s not Hakyeon’s fault. Don’t throw this away because you’re being emotional—”

The very last vestige of Sanghyuk’s patience shatters, and along with it, his manners. “I am so fucking _sick_ and _tired_ of you and Hongbin acting like you know everything, just because you’re matched,” he shouts, rounding to shove Wonshik backwards, out of his room. “You don’t know shit! You’ve had your match from the start. You didn’t grow up piss-poor. You don’t know _shit_ , Wonshik, so get the fuck out of my face.”

He slams the door on Wonshik’s startled expression and pulls on his jeans, hands shaking. Some dim, distant part of his mind knows that, irritatingly, Wonshik is right—he’s overreacting and he’s being emotional and he’s being immature. But the time for rationality is gone, the dam broken, and he’s not sure how he can come back from this.

*******

Wisdom House Publishing is located in a huge skyscraper in the central business district, one that Sanghyuk only finds because he plugs the address in, with shaking hands, to the GPS on his phone. He takes the Jeep, ignoring the way Wonshik still tries to placate him, wishing he’d get angry instead so it’d be easier to hate him. He spends the entire drive there jiggling in nervous anticipation, feeling sick to his stomach, avoiding looking at the four letters sitting innocuously on the passenger seat. When he gets there he parks directly out the front and slams the door behind him before storming inside, not caring that the people on the footpath—men and women in suits with briefcases—are staring at his shitty car and dishevelled appearance.

“I need to see Cha Hakyeon,” he says to the girl manning the front desk.

She takes one glance at him and looks away. “President Cha isn’t taking appointments right now—”

This he’d expected, but he has a trump card. He leans further over the desk, catching her eyes, and frowns. “Call Taekwoon and tell him I’m here. See what he says.”

For a moment she just stares at him, and he thinks she won’t do it, that he’ll have to break in somehow—but the desperation in his eyes must come across as genuine, rather than psychotic, and so with a long-suffering sigh she picks up the phone and hits a button. “Mr. Jung? Yeah, I have someone here wanting to see President Cha… No…” She pulls away and puts her hand over the receiver. “What’s your name? He says his name is Han Sanghyuk… What? Really?” This time her stare at Sanghyuk is one of surprise. “Okay, sure.” She puts the phone down and reaches for a visitor’s pass, sliding it over the counter towards him. “He says you can go right up. Thirtieth floor.”

The satisfaction at being allowed in is only short-lived, however, because the moment he steps off the lift onto the thirtieth floor Taekwoon is there, arms folded, a frown on his face. “Sanghyuk, hey. I don’t think Hakyeon’s expecting you—”

“No, he’s not.” Sanghyuk holds up the letters just long enough for Taekwoon to recognise the letterhead. “But I need to talk to him.”

Taekwoon doesn’t say anything more, just turns and leads Sanghyuk through a maze of hallways and offices until they reach one that screams _I’m important!_ The nameplate on the door reads _Cha Hakyeon_ , with no mention of his position; Sanghyuk only has a second to puzzle over that before Taekwoon knocks on the door sharply, opens it, and gestures him inside.

Sanghyuk’s been practicing what he’ll do the entire drive here (walk over calmly. Place the letters down calmly. Say, “I don’t think I can be with you anymore.” Walk away, calmly) and he’s rehearsed it enough that he even starts towards the desk—but he doesn’t get much further than that, because the moment he lays eyes on Hakyeon all his carefully-laid plans shatter into oblivion. It’s a repeated theme, that. He can’t quite work out why Hakyeon seems to defy every single one of his expectations, and while it had been thrilling at first, now it’s just tiring. Hakyeon looks surprised but pleased, his fork still hovering in the air, and he puts it down and smiles widely at Sanghyuk.

“Fuck you,” Sanghyuk blurts, stalking up to the desk and slamming the letters down, blinking back tears and hating how he’s suddenly come over so childish. It was fine in front of Wonshik. It’s not fine here.

Hakyeon blinks, startled, and takes the letters slowly. As he reads through them his expression changes, from shock to realisation to anger to sympathy, and when he looks up at Sanghyuk again—trembling all over like a livewire, unsure of whether to flee or to stay—the pity in his eyes is nearly too much to bear. “I’m so sorry,” he says, getting up from the desk and coming around to approach Sanghyuk. “I didn’t know. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Don’t,” Sanghyuk sobs, but Hakyeon pays no heed and pulls him into an embrace. “Don’t…”

“I had nothing to do with this.” Hakyeon is quiet, genuine, still and unmoving—the image of maturity and cool-headedness, such contrast to the way Sanghyuk is falling apart in his arms. “But even so, I’m so sorry. I know how much it must hurt.”

“We searched you, Wonshik and I. On naver. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did, and—” He takes a shuddering breath in and hugs Hakyeon back, relaxing into the touch. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, I guess.” Pausing, he screws his eyes shut, ignoring the tears that are now soaking into Hakyeon’s jacket. “I always thought that if I got published, it’d be by you guys.”

For a moment they just stand there, locked in an embrace that Sanghyuk wants to tear away from but, at the same time, cannot bring himself to, before Hakyeon starts speaking. “I still remember my first rejection letter,” he whispers. “It was just after one of my professors had told me he didn’t think I’d make it as a writer, if that was what my career choice was. It was… awful. I nearly burnt all my journals. Instead I just boxed them up and put them in storage, and I haven’t touched them since. I changed my major just after that. So… I understand how you’re feeling. And I’m sorry that my actions, however obtuse, have made you feel this way.”

And there it is, the full truth: Sanghyuk now understands how someone could stop writing, to turn away from the page forever. He wants to tell Hakyeon to dig those journals out of storage, but it’s not his place. Instead he just pulls back slightly and wipes his tears with the back of a hand. “I came here to break up with you,” he blurts, and then starts laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“Oh?” Hakyeon raises an eyebrow, but he’s smiling, too. “I didn’t realise you could break up with someone when you’re not officially dating them. Things have changed since my day.”

“Let’s officially date then,” Sanghyuk replies quickly, startling himself as well as Hakyeon. Where had that come from? He’d fully intended, as he said, to break up with Hakyeon, to say _I just can’t do this anymore, I’m sorry_. But now he’s proposing that they become—what? Boyfriends? It’s a glib term for someone who means more to him than anyone else has before, but it’s the only one he has.

“So you can break up with me?” Hakyeon asks archly.

Hakyeon is making a joke out of it to give him an out, he knows—but ever the passionate man he is, he takes no heed and leaps head-first into the breach, aware that he’s about to sign his heart away into Hakyeon’s hands, soulmarks be damned, but too giddy with affection to care in the slightest. “No, so we can be… boyfriends, I guess.” When Hakyeon doesn’t say anything, his confidence wavers. “I mean, only if you want. If you’d rather keep it casual…”

Snorting, Hakyeon tugs Sanghyuk closer so their noses are brushing. “Nothing about this has been casual from the start,” he tells Sanghyuk, and it’s the truth and they both know it. “So I’m glad I can call you ‘mine’ now, and mean it.”

Sanghyuk’s heart does a backflip at those words, and he kisses Hakyeon, trying to tell him everything his words cannot.

*******

It takes Sanghyuk about a half an hour to explain himself more thoroughly and justify his actions as best he can, even though Hakyeon can see he’s struggling. Hakyeon gets it, he does, but he’s not entirely convinced that this will be the end of Sanghyuk’s concerns over money—it’s too big a problem in his eyes for one small conversation to have fixed things entirely. And Hakyeon understands that, too; not so long ago he was in Sanghyuk’s position, having very little exposure to this kind of world. He tries to keep all that in mind, but he doesn’t bring it up. It’s not a conversation for when Sanghyuk’s perched on Hakyeon’s desk, Hakyeon standing in front of him running his fingers through Sanghyuk’s hair, unable to contain his affection.

 _Boyfriends_. What a strange concept. How many years has it been, he wonders? At least four. And yet it fits, somehow, especially when Sanghyuk screws up his nose after Hakyeon kisses it, when he leans in to reciprocate. It’s disgustingly cute, the kind of behaviour that Hakyeon’s had to observe from Jaehwan over the years, but he just can’t stop himself.

“I’m sorry,” Sanghyuk finishes, repeating himself for the thousandth time. He presses a hand flat on Hakyeon’s chest as if to underline the gravitas of the situation, looks into Hakyeon’s eyes; his gaze is so earnest and open that Hakyeon swears time stops. “I let my fear get the best of me.”

How can he say _there’s nothing to be afraid of_ when, for Sanghyuk, there clearly is? With every moment that passes the hope that beats in Hakyeon’s blood becomes more and more of a fact in his mind, but Sanghyuk obviously doesn’t feel the same. Hakyeon doesn’t want to pressure him, but at the same time—the truth is there between them, as real and as present as their bodies, and Hakyeon is about to leap over the edge into believing. “It’s okay,” he whispers instead, slides a hand up Sanghyuk’s thigh in a touch that he doesn’t mean to be sexual but evidently has that effect, because Sanghyuk’s eyes widen and he inhales raggedly. “I’m just glad we were able to talk it through. It’s a good sign.” He slides his hand around Sanghyuk’s hip, tugs him closer across the wood over the desk—and then it’s his turn to inhale roughly when Sanghyuk hitches both his legs up to wrap around Hakyeon. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I don’t want to lose you either, hyung,” Sanghyuk whispers, but it sounds like he’s floating away, and Hakyeon wants him _here_ , so he grabs him by the collar and drags him into a kiss.

Perhaps it’s because of the way Sanghyuk’d come storming in, how they way he’d yelled at Hakyeon had made his temper flare. Perhaps it’s because they’re doing this where they shouldn’t be. But desperation courses through them, as familiar and as welcome as the desire that slams into Hakyeon as quick as rage did earlier, and he pushes Sanghyuk down on the desk, scattering paper everywhere and not caring. “I want to fuck you here,” he growls into Sanghyuk’s ear, enjoying the way Sanghyuk pushes off his jacket in response, a moan slipping out before he can temper it.

“Wait,” Sanghyuk whispers, and splays a hand on Hakyeon’s chest. Immediately, Hakyeon stops moving, hovering above Sanghyuk, the lust nearly crippling him. “I have a better idea.”

Before he can even ask what—because those words sound dangerous slipping out of Sanghyuk’s mouth like that, saccharine and salacious—Sanghyuk pushes him away and leans backwards on the desk. He looks like shit, frankly; his eyes are red-rimmed from the crying and his hair is sticking up from Hakyeon fisting his hands in it—but he looks needy at the same time, and Hakyeon can see he’s hard, too, and he has to curl his hands into fists so as not to reach out and touch. “I want you to watch me.”

“Watch you—” Hakyeon starts, and then cuts himself off as Sanghyuk rubs his own cock through his jeans, a smirk settling onto his face, and he understands. “Oh, _fuck_.”

Wordlessly, Sanghyuk points at the chair, so feeling rather light-headed Hakyeon does as he’s told and staggers towards it to flop bonelessly down, not sure he’ll be able to get back up again. Sanghyuk stands up and takes off his jeans, shooting a concerned look at the door—“he won’t come in,” Hakyeon assures him, and Sanghyuk quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t protest—before settling himself once more on the desk in front of Hakyeon.

Oh, it burns, it burns to have Sanghyuk in front of him and not be able to touch—but he reaches out a hand to do just that and Sanghyuk slaps it away, intent on being cruel to the last, and it’s all Hakyeon can do not to whimper. Instead he curls his hands around the armrests of the chair, fingers digging into the plush leather, and watches soundlessly as Sanghyuk cups his cock through his underwear. There’s a wet patch of precome on the fabric, painfully visible, and Hakyeon can’t keep his eyes away from it. He’s sure he’s going to actually die as Sanghyuk pulls his underwear down to circle a hand around his cock, tipping his head back as he begins to stroke himself slowly—this is it, this is how he dies, killed by the wiles of his boyfriend.

“Please,” he croaks, his knuckles turning white. “Let me—”

“Shut up, hyung,” Sanghyuk replies, trying for droll and ending up somewhere near discordant instead. This is taking its toll on him nearly as much as it is on Hakyeon—and it’s curious that if it was anyone else ordering him around he’d hate it, but since it’s Sanghyuk, he just does as he’s told and sits back, gritting his teeth.

Somehow this is almost more intimate than all the times they’ve fucked, and not just because the danger of being caught is heightening their senses. Hakyeon’s never watched anyone get off for him before, and his mind is racing—is this what Sanghyuk looks like at home, fucking into his hand when he gets turned on? What is he thinking of? He strokes himself with a practiced hand, twisting on the downstroke and swiping his thumb across the head of his cock on the upstroke, and Hakyeon’s mesmerised. He doesn’t know how he manages to sit there, frozen, as Sanghyuk picks up the pace and starts panting, his hips jerking up into his hand, but he does—and oh, this is filthy and vulgar and obscene in the basest of ways, but there’s poetry in the way his hand moves, in the way his lips part, in the musical notes of his moans. He’s close, Hakyeon can tell, and then, right before he comes, he slumps forward to look at Hakyeon, and he nearly comes untouched himself. The way Sanghyuk looks, clapping his other hand over his mouth so as not to cry out, body shuddering as he comes on himself, is something from Hakyeon’s deepest, darkest fantasies, pure want and need and anguish all in one.

“Sanghyuk, I—” Hakyeon starts, already fumbling for his belt, because he knows he needs to come and he needs to come now and his world has narrowed down to nothing but Sanghyuk, Sanghyuk, Sanghyuk, his name beating in Hakyeon’s heart and pulsing in his mark. “I need—”

But then, as he finally gets his belt open and yanks open the button on his trousers, Sanghyuk slumps to his knees and wraps his fingers around the waistband, pulling them down, freeing Hakyeon’s cock and circling one hand around it, eyes flicking upwards to meet Hakyeon’s. He only gets the chance to wrap his lips around it, tongue flattening against the underside of the head, before Hakyeon sees stars and—with a soundless whine, eyes rolling back in his head—he comes, nearly bucking out of the damn chair as Sanghyuk sucks him off the whole time, swallowing his come easily.

For a while they just sit, Sanghyuk kneeling between Hakyeon’s legs, his head resting upon Hakyeon’s thigh. Hakyeon is only vaguely aware that he’s stroking Sanghyuk’s hair; he feels boneless, washed-out, not entirely here. It’s pleasant, but the more he comes back to earth the more he realises that he’s sitting at his desk with his cock out and Taekwoon really could walk in at any moment and begins to make moves to clean himself up. It’s a pretty hopeless task, since Sanghyuk has come on his shirt and some at the corner of his mouth, and—god, Hakyeon’s cock twitches, and he feels himself starting to get hard again. “Sanghyuk,” he murmurs, and swipes at the come on his mouth with the pad of his thumb. Sanghyuk just blinks languidly up at him, a small, self-satisfied smile on his face. “C’mon. Sanghyukkie, you gotta get up.”

“Say that again,” Sanghyuk orders, but he gets to his feet and starts getting dressed, albeit slowly.

Hakyeon tidies himself up, straightening his jacket from where it was crushed underneath Sanghyuk’s hand, and makes sure he’s presentable before he gets to his feet, approaching Sanghyuk to kiss him. The fact that he can taste himself only makes it hotter. “My Sanghyukkie,” he murmurs, thumb stroking along the line of Sanghyuk’s jaw, watching his eyes widen. “Mine.”

In the end Hakyeon goes to the cupboard in the corner of his office and digs out, from the very back, a hoodie that he must have worn here once, and gives it to Sanghyuk to do up over his come-streaked t-shirt; he accepts it with a sheepish grin, flipping the hood over his head and kissing Hakyeon one more time before making his way out of the office with a friendly wave like they’ve just had a normal meeting.

Leaving Hakyeon to turn and stare at the mess that’s left behind; with a long-suffering sigh he bends and starts picking up the papers that are now scattered all over the floor. Taekwoon walks in as he’s nearly finished and stands in front of the door, arms crossed, his face unmistakably drawn into an expression that screams _pissed_. “You didn’t fuck him in here, did you?”

“Of course not,” Hakyeon replies, blinking in feigned surprise as he sits back down at his desk. “What kind of person do you take me for?”

“Why’d he leave in your hoodie, then?”

Hakyeon shrugs, palms wide, the very picture of _what can you do?_ “He was cold.”

“Uh-huh,” Taekwoon says, with the all-knowing tone of someone matched, someone who’s been though all this before—although somehow, Hakyeon can’t imagine he and Gayeong, his match, doing nasty filthy things on his desk at work. She’s sweet, but not the type. Or—who knows? Most who know Hakyeon wouldn’t think him the type either.

Taekwoon turns to go, but Hakyeon calls him back, flicking through the mess of papers that he needs to sort until he finds what he’s looking for, pulling them out and spreading them across the desk, flattening his palms on them. “I want you to get me these submissions.”

Taekwoon blanches as he stalks closer. “But… this first one is from three years ago,” he points out, picking up the most crinkled one. “I don’t—”

Hakyeon levels him with a glare, the kind he reserves for when he _really_ needs to pull out the CEO card. He’s only used it on Taekwoon once before, and he immediately shuts his mouth, knowing the gravity of what Hakyeon’s saying. “I want them as soon as possible.”

“Yes boss,” Taekwoon sighs with only the barest hint of sarcasm, picking up the letters and making his way out of Hakyeon’s office. Hakyeon doesn’t miss the eye roll he gives as he shuts the door, but he’s used to Taekwoon’s attitude and at this point it would be more concerning if he didn’t protest to whatever Hakyeon asked him to do.

And at last Hakyeon is alone in his office, left staring at his messy desk with Sanghyuk’s name drifting lazily through his mind, this time with the descriptor _boyfriend_ trailing not far behind it; a pleasant concept, and one he’s entirely unused to after so long of being single.

*******

It’s nearly evening by the time Taekwoon returns with the submissions clutched in his hands, this time looking stressed—his hair is standing up every-which-way, like he’s been running his hands through it as he yelled at some poor intern to hurry up, which is probably exactly what he’s been happening. “Here,” he says, and puts them on Hakyeon’s desk. “Can I go home now?”

“No, I expect you to stay and read through these with me,” Hakyeon replies, just to watch him pale. “I’m kidding. Go home. I’ll see you on Monday.”

Taekwoon pauses in the doorway, hovering. “Don’t stay here all night,” he warns, because sometimes Hakyeon has done just that, fallen asleep at his desk and woken to Taekwoon shaking him with concern. “Make sure to go home.”

“I will.” Hakyeon waves at him before turning his attention to the manuscripts before him.

He almost feels guilty as he runs his hands over the covers. _The Boy and the Sea. Longing. Him. Texts from Another Life._ These are Sanghyuk’s poems, the rawest part of his soul, and they’re here for the taking. Maybe he shouldn’t? Maybe he should wait until Sanghyuk reveals them himself? But then, he did send them in to be published; these must be poems that he’s comfortable with sharing, so he shrugs off his doubts and picks up the letters to figure out which order to read them in. It seems that _Longing_ is the first, followed by _Texts from Another Life_ , then _Him_ , and lastly _The Boy and the Sea_ , which is only a few months old.

He picks up _Longing_ , flips it open, and begins to read.

*******

It’s not the first time Hakyeon has woken to suspicious banging in his kitchen, and—as he drowsily hauls himself out of bed and makes his way down the hall—he knows somehow it won’t be the last. There’s only one person who’d break in and be so obnoxious about it, and sure enough, when he gets into the living room he can see his kitchen is a mess and Jaehwan’s sitting on the sofa, watching tv and eating what look to be pancakes. He’s also shirtless for no reason in particular, making it easy for Hakyeon to slap his mark—he jumps and shrieks—before padding over to stare at the mess. “It’s too early for your shit,” he says through a yawn. “What the hell are you doing?”

Jaehwan blinks at him, startled. “Woah, hyung. What’s wrong?” He pouts, and Hakyeon feels some of his irritation lessen, at least a little bit. “I made you pancakes and everything!”

“Was up late at the office last night,” Hakyeon replies, helping himself to a pancake and brightening somewhat when he sees they’re chocolate chip, his favourite. “You’ll never guess what happened with Sanghyuk.”

In between bites of admittedly delicious pancakes, Hakyeon fills Jaehwan in to everything that’s happened since they last met, skipping over the details of their passionate liaison in the office (Jaehwan reads between the lines anyway and spends the rest of the time with a fat, self-satisfied grin on his face) and ending with how he’d spent hours reading Sanghyuk’s manuscripts, completely absorbed.

“I see why the first two were rejected,” he confesses, placing his knife and fork neatly together on the plate and putting it on the coffee table. “They lack maturity and depth, even though they show promise. But the last two? That last one in particular, _The Boy and the Sea_ … it really shook me to my core.” He catches Jaehwan’s eyes. “He’s experienced so much shit in his life… so much loss. He’s an old soul.”

“So are you,” Jaehwan interjects, dodging Hakyeon’s lazy swipe easily. “But, hyung… You own the fucking company. You could write complete gibberish and have it published, if you wanted to. Why don’t you push the manuscript through? Override the editor?”

And there it is, the question that Hakyeon’s been asking himself since Sanghyuk first slapped those letters down on his desk. “I want to… Because I can tell how badly he’s gagging for it. His whole life is his poetry. Reading it was like reading someone’s diary. It’s so personal… so raw. But at the same time that seems so unfair. He’s worked so hard up until now. Wouldn’t it be such a cop-out if he only got published because the manuscript fell into my hands only because we’re boyfriends?”

“You could ask him.” Jaehwan rolls his eyes, like Hakyeon’s agonising over something that can be solved with a simple conversation—but as Hakyeon is only just beginning to learn, nothing with Sanghyuk is ever simple.

“Maybe,” Hakyeon murmurs, and then points at the kitchen. “You’re cleaning that up, by the way.”

Jaehwan flings himself into Hakyeon’s arms, peppering him with kisses, ignoring the way Hakyeon starts yelling to try and fend him off. “But I cooked!”

It’s an argument that Hakyeon knows how to win—Jaehwan responds best to threats, so Hakyeon only has to mention that he’ll key one of his ridiculous cars before he’s leaping over the back of the sofa—so he settles back on the sofa and pulls out his phone, sending Sanghyuk a text before he can even think about it: _was woken up by an intruder by the name of Jaehwan. What’re you doing?_

The reply is instant: _was woken up by hongbin hyung blasting his 90s playlist. what’s worse, jaehwan, or waking up to pony by ginuwine?_ Before Hakyeon can even react, though, another reply comes through, along with a picture: _i’m having a bath, actually_. The picture is tame enough, he supposes; Sanghyuk’s showing a sliver of chest, but it’s the expression on his face that’s dangerous.

“Jaehwan,” Hakyeon calls as he gets up from the sofa, aware that, knowing them, this is probably going to divulge into filthy very quickly and he physically cannot get aroused in Jaehwan’s presence. “You can stop that. It’s fine.”

“What?”

Hakyeon hooks an arm under Jaehwan’s elbow and drags him towards the lift, scooping to pick up his shirt and hand it back to him. “You need to go.”

“Hyung, wha—”

Figuring Jaehwan will not leave unless given _some_ information—and he’s surprisingly strong for someone who does nothing but laze around all day, already pulling back against Hakyeon’s hand—he holds up his phone, giving Jaehwan a flash of the selfie. “Sanghyuk’s in the bath. He’s texting me pictures. You’ll spoil my fun, so go.”

“You could have just said you wanted to jack off,” Jaehwan says dryly, but waves a hand as the lift doors shut. “Bye. You’re welcome for the pancakes!”

 _I evicted Jaehwan_ , he texts back to Sanghyuk as he traipses down the hall to the bedroom, flopping onto the bed ungracefully. _Mainly because I don’t really know how to react to that._

 _you could send one back_ , Sanghyuk replies, and then before Hakyeon can even react another photo comes through. If the other one was hinting at suggestiveness, this is outright glaring in its implicitness: Sanghyuk has angled the camera down, showing his chest, one hand splayed on his stomach beneath his bellybutton, biting his lip, looking into the camera like he wants to fuck it. Hakyeon feels his cock twitch and hates how easy this is, hates how with one look Sanghyuk can begin to make him come undone. It’s like he has no control at all, and it’s sort of terrifying.

 _is this sexting?_ he replies, before sitting up and taking his shirt off, trying to work out what kind of selfie to take as he stares down at himself. _I’ve never sexted before. I’ve no idea what I’m doing._

_hyung. just send me a picture so I can get off._

He stares at his phone for a few seconds as the words swim in front of his eyes, and then—another photo, and his fingers clench around the phone so tightly it begins to hurt. Sanghyuk’s got a hand curled loosely around his cock, half-hard in the water, and Hakyeon can hardly _breathe_ , Jesus, what is _happening_ to him? Before he can second-guess himself and before he can mull over the consequences—Lord knows it’d be career suicide if this got out, because he doesn’t think the board of directors are the type of people to approve of sexting—he holds his phone out, wrapping his spare hand around his cock and pressing down on the fabric of the grey sweatpants he was sleeping in; he cuts off his face below the nose, figuring that will be enough, and looks at the photo for a second before pressing send. He doesn’t think it looks particularly sexy, not least because it’s kind of blurry, but when Sanghyuk replies with nothing but _ajdshaa78sd8678dsaf877sfu_ he gathers it had the intended effect. Huh.

 _god, hyung…_ another text rolls in. _you’re making me lose my mind._

Acting entirely on instinct, Hakyeon pulls up Sanghyuk’s contact card and presses call, getting a weird flash of deja-vu as he does. They haven’t spoken on the phone since that night where Sanghyuk asked if Hakyeon wanted something better to do in a tone of voice that was so full of promise… and now look where they are.

Sanghyuk picks up nearly instantly, and he already sounds breathless. “Hyung,” he whispers, but it’s more of a moan. “I missed you.”

“You saw me yesterday,” Hakyeon reminds him, sticking a thumb in the waistband of his sweatpants and tugging them down. “I’m starting to think you’re just with me for the sex.”

“We didn’t even _have_ sex yesterday,” Sanghyuk replies—and then cuts off a moan almost before it starts. “Not by the traditional definition, anyway. I mean, I’m not complaining…”

When Hakyeon closes his eyes, tipping his head back on the pillows as he starts stroking himself, languidly and slowly, he can see Sanghyuk. He’s everywhere: on Hakyeon’s desk; splaying a hand on Hakyeon’s chest as the moonlight paints him silver; a cigarette clutched in his hand as he reads Hakyeon a poem; staring at Hakyeon across the bonnet of a car, his gaze unreadable and poignant. “And now we’re having phone sex,” he says belatedly, realising that they’ve somehow become a complete porno sterotype in every way. “You seem determined to drag me into sin, Sanghyuk.”

“You were the one who kissed me first.” Sanghyuk’s voice is ragged, shaky; Hakyeon bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

“Couldn’t stop myself when you looked that good,” he mumbles, inhaling and exhaling just to make sure he still can. “God, Sanghyuk, what are you thinking about?”

“You… your voice. You fucking me. Your cock—” There’s a garbled noise that sounds like a groan, one Hakyeon echoes as he fucks his hips up into the circle of his hand, wishing that it was Sanghyuk’s mouth instead. “The way you look when you come, the way you close your eyes—your _mouth_ , hyung, fuck, everything you do is just—you make me wanna die sometimes because I get so turned on—I wish you were here, fuck.”

He’s close, if the way he’s becoming more and more incoherent is any tell. Hakyeon is too, but is holding himself back, deliberately slowing down because he wants to hear Sanghyuk first, wants that to be the thing that tips him over the edge. “Sanghyuk,” he pants, allowing the desperation beating in his blood to bleed through into his voice. “I want you to come for me—”

He doesn’t even get a chance to continue, because with a moan that’s little more than the half-formed syllables of Hakyeon’s name, Sanghyuk does—and Hakyeon can see it, so clearly in his head: slumped in the bath as he spurts come on himself, eyes rolling back in his head, lips parted. That mental image, combined with the noises Sanghyuk’s making, propel him over the edge before he can temper himself, and he comes soundlessly, writhing on the bed and nearly going blind with lust. It’s the second time in twenty-four hours he’s felt like he might just die because of Sanghyuk, but he doesn’t even care anymore. He wants this feeling for the rest of his life.

“I’ve never had phone sex before,” he says absentmindedly a few moments later, still breathless. Sanghyuk starts laughing, and he shrugs, even though he knows Sanghyuk can’t see him. “What! I haven’t! CEOs do not go around having phone sex.”

“I bet they do. You just did, and you’re a CEO.” Sanghyuk sighs. “Fucking hell. Would you believe me if I said I’d never had phone sex before either?”

“No.”

“I haven’t! Sexting is one thing, but proper phone sex… That’s from your generation, hyung.”

Hakyeon gives up on reaching for the tissues that are too far away and uses his shirt to wipe himself clean instead, knowing it’s disgusting and not caring a jot. “Fuck you,” he says, but there’s no heat in it and they’re both laughing. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Working, I think… But I can ask if Wonshik will swap shifts. Why?”

“I feel like we need to go out on a proper date, as boyfriends.” The words fall out before he can stop them, but he finds that he does mean them, he just hadn’t considered it like that—their dates so far haven’t been particularly romantic, and have nearly always involved company. They deserve to do something nice without Jaehwan tagging along. “Something really stupidly romantic, like eat chicken at the river, or… Lotte World.”

“You wanna go to Lotte World, on a Sunday,” Sanghyuk deadpans. “ _Please_ tell me you’re joking.”

Yanking his sweatpants up and heading back out to the kitchen, Hakyeon grins widely. “No! It’ll be fun! I haven’t been in years. Come on, Sanghyuk, please?”

His whining and cajoling works, because Sanghyuk eventually gives in, half-heartedly grumbling the whole time about how awful it’s going to be in between yelling out to Wonshik about swapping shifts and telling Hakyeon when to pick him up. It’s chaotic and stupid and Hakyeon loves every minute of it, standing in the kitchen drinking water with his phone on speaker, staring out at the city horizon and laughing. He has a _boyfriend_. He has a boyfriend and his boyfriend is _Sanghyuk_ , and maybe, just maybe, he might be the one.

He looks down at his mark, so striking against his wrist, and smiles.

*******

Dragging himself out of bed at nine-thirty is a challenge if ever Sanghyuk’s seen one—and not least because he stayed up late last night chain-smoking and scrawling poem after poem, feeling more inspired than he has been in a while—but somehow he manages it, making it downstairs in time to see Hakyeon pull up in his Porsche and jump out with an enthusiasm that should be illegal before midday on a Sunday. It’s infectious, though, and Sanghyuk can’t stop himself from grinning as he pulls Hakyeon in for a hug, burying his face in the crook of his neck and inhaling the scent of him. “Morning, boyfriend,” he grunts.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Hakyeon replies, turning his head to kiss Sanghyuk on the cheek. “I brought you coffee. And donuts.”

“Mmm, that’s the best kind of bribery.” Sanghyuk tightens his hold, making Hakyeon squeak, before letting him go, albeit reluctantly—he just feels so right in Sanghyuk’s arms, almost depressingly so—to head for the car. “Think we’ll beat the rush?”

“No,” Hakyeon hums as he slips inside and presses the button to start the engine, which rumbles into life somewhat threateningly. “But that’ll make it all the more fun.”

Sanghyuk rolls his eyes. “You have a warped definition of fun, hyung,” he points out as he takes off his jacket and reached for the full cup of coffee, wrapping his hands around it and sighing in bliss before taking a sip.

He doesn’t miss the way Hakyeon eyes his forearm with a pleased smile, and has to bite back one of his own. As he’d been getting dressed this morning he’d paired his usual all-black outfit with the band Hakyeon’d given him, and as he stood in the mirror and cast an eye over himself even he had to admit it looked good. Hakyeon, of course, looks like he’s just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine, as per usual; he’s always so well-dressed in an understated way, and Sanghyuk admires it. Black is his uniform, one he deviates from rarely.

Hakyeon is being quieter than normal, though. He doesn’t react beyond a raised eyebrow when Sanghyuk plugs in his phone and starts playing obnoxious kpop, and he doesn’t even sing along when _Like A Cat_ comes on; he’s chewing his lip and driving sedately, two things that Sanghyuk now knows means he’s mulling over his words. He can only stand it until he’s finished his coffee and actually feels awake enough to deal with whatever Hakyeon’s thinking about, so he puts one hand on his forearm, squeezing gently. “What’s up, hyung?”

“Damn you for being so perceptive,” Hakyeon fires back grumpily—playfully, though—as he peers in his wing mirror before switching lanes.

“I’m only tuned into you,” Sanghyuk says, trying to sound bright and cheerful even though he’s sort of scared of whatever it is that Hakyeon’s going to say. “So spit it out.”

To Hakyeon’s credit, he doesn’t draw it any further, but what he says leaves Sanghyuk shaken in his seat, because whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. “The other day, after you left, I got Taekwoon to fetch your submissions, and I read them.” He pauses as they pull up at a set of lights, and reaches for Sanghyuk’s hand. “I’m sorry if it feels like I invaded your privacy. But… I wanted to know. Ever since you read me your poetry I couldn’t stop thinking about the other things you’d written… and when I had the opportunity, I took it.”

 _Like any ruthless CEO would_ , Sanghyuk thinks before he can stop himself, but it’s not with any real malice. “Hyung,” he breathes, and squeezes Hakyeon’s hand as he tries to decipher what, exactly, he’s feeling. “I don’t mind. I did send them in to be published, after all.” He swallows, pulling his hand free of Hakyeon’s, hating his next words and hating how needy he is. “What… did you think?”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

Hakyeon shoots a sideways glance at him, as if assessing, before pulling away from the lights with perhaps a bit more acceleration than strictly necessary. “The first two showed promise, but they weren’t your best work. The last two were amazing, though. _The Boy and the Sea_ blew me away. I adored it.”

Sanghyuk’s utter relief at that is ridiculous in its scale. He knows—he hopes he knows, at least—he’s good at writing poetry. It’s what he’s been doing for as long as he can remember, after all. But to hear Hakyeon say it validates him like nothing on earth he’s ever felt before, and he’s too busy grinning widely and digging his fingers into the plush leather of the seat to notice the glance Hakyeon’s shooting his way. “Hyung!” he whines, not caring that he sounds childish, too exuberant to care about anything. “Thank you!”

But Hakyeon still has that funny look on his face. “Sanghyuk… If you wanted, I could—I could maybe push through the manuscript for you. Override the editor’s decision, I mean.” He looks uncomfortable at this, like by suggesting it he knows what he’s going to do to Sanghyuk, but he presses forth anyway as much as Sanghyuk is silently begging him to shut up. “It’s my objective opinion that it deserves to be published, but, I—I understand if you want to refuse. I don’t want you to feel like I’m offering this because of what we are… But I wanted to offer regardless.”

And with that he falls into silence, leaving Sanghyuk a torn wreck in his passenger seat.

He knows, of course, that he’s overreacting yet again. But he can’t help but be agonised over the twin feelings of hope, brighter than any hope he’s ever felt before, tempered by hesitation, winding up his throat and threatening to take away oxygen entirely. Because this is everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s been working towards, everything he’s dreamed of… and everything he’s been secretly fearing since he found out who Hakyeon was. He may say he’s being objective, but Sanghyuk has seen the way Hakyeon looks at him sometimes: with stars in his eyes, like Sanghyuk can do no wrong. How can he be telling the truth? How can his opinion on the poetry be unaffected by his feelings? And how the hell can Sanghyuk decide when his future is offered up on a platter like this?

“You don’t have to decide right now,” Hakyeon murmurs, putting a hand on Sanghyuk’s thigh and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I just wanted to give you the option.”

“Thanks,” Sanghyuk replies, and it must sound as weak as he feels because Hakyeon’s eyebrows draw together with obvious concern. “I’ll—I’ll think about it.”

As if to combat the painful awkwardness that’s suddenly surrounded them, Hakyeon launches into a detailed play-by-play of his week, telling Sanghyuk about the ins and outs of corporate culture. Sanghyuk actually couldn’t care less, but the constant background noise is comforting, not least because it’s just Hakyeon’s voice, and so as they drive across the city he listens and he relaxes and uncurls his fingers, breathing out and letting Hakyeon breathe him in.

“Oh, God,” he moans as they pull into the carpark—it’s just rows and rows of car after car. “Why’d we have to come on a Sunday?”

“Because I have a nine to five,” Hakyeon replies with a raised eyebrow.

Sanghyuk slumps down into his seat and folds his arms over his chest. “Oh, look at you, Mr. High and Mighty with his nine to five.” This earns him a poke between his ribs from Hakyeon, and he yelps and jerks away, laughing. It’s easy. This is easy. This is what it should be between them; they shouldn’t be fettered by the awkwardness, by the constant missteps.

Or maybe Sanghyuk’s just hoping for too much.

In the end he doesn’t even get the chance to complain about the parking, because Hakyeon heads to the valet parking—Sanghyuk didn’t even realise they had valet parking here—and hops out, handing the keys to the eager attendant who rushes over to take them with a simpering smile, ushering them towards a lift that’s plushly carpeted and smells too much like floral perfume. They’re whisked upwards and spill out into the underground mall, Sanghyuk following in Hakyeon’s wake like it’s his first time here.

“Okay,” Hakyeon starts once they’re inside Lotte World itself, unfolding a map—Sanghyuk had tried to pay for his ticket but Hakyeon had just waved his hands away. “Where do you want to go first?”

He’s trying so hard, Sanghyuk realises, watching him as he studies the map with bright eyes, babbling away about this ride and that ride. He’s trying so hard to make this work like his boundless zeal can make up for all of Sanghyuk’s reservations; it’s admirable and actually very sweet, and Sanghyuk wishes he had a pen and paper with him. Words are once more flowing through his veins as he just watches Hakyeon point at various different rides on the map, and he wants to describe everything: the way his eyelashes fan against his cheek when he blinks; the way his thumb skims his forehead when he brushes his hair back; the way he looks up at Sanghyuk and smiles so wide his eyes crinkle into half-moons, far more beautiful than he has any right to be.

Forgetting about all of the bullshit for a moment, Sanghyuk takes a step closer and presses a soft kiss to his cheek, silencing him in one fell swoop. “Let’s do everything,” he whispers, and rests his hand on Hakyeon’s neck for just a second, meeting his eyes and trying to say _I’d do anything for you_ , because, really, he would.

So that’s exactly what they do. Sanghyuk spots a stall selling snacks and buys a stick of cotton candy bigger than his head, and they share it as they wander from ride to ride, threading through the crowds of couples and families and tourists. The cotton candy is sweet as it dissolves on his tongue, but not as sweet as the feeling that swells behind his breastbone whenever he and Hakyeon lock eyes and smile at each other. For once in their lives, they can forget their marks, forget the fact that Hakyeon could probably buy Sanghyuk’s entire soul. They’re just Hakyeon and Sanghyuk, boyfriends on a date. It’s refreshing.

Hakyeon drags Sanghyuk on the merry-go-round, even though he complains, and by the second time around Sanghyuk’s grinning, much to the amusement of the children clinging to the horses and shrieking all around them. It’s juvenile, but he laughs when he leans over to kiss Hakyeon quickly and hears them all start yelling. Normal. It’s normal. It’s normal that Hakyeon feeds him the last of the cotton candy until his fingers are sticky, and then he demands Sanghyuk lick them clean, right there in public—an order that Sanghyuk refuses, which earns him a sticky hand in the face. It’s normal that he refuses to go on the rollercoaster, only giving in when Hakyeon starts pouting; it’s even more normal when he screams himself hoarse the whole time, gripping onto Hakyeon’s hand like he’s an anchor. Hakyeon even manages to drag him onto the ice rink even though he bitches the whole time. In the end it’s worth it to see Hakyeon gliding around, graceful as always, with a smile splitting his face in two. At one point he grabs Sanghyuk and pulls him around the ice; they’re both giggling and not watching where they’re going, so their skates get tangled and they end up sprawled on the ice, still laughing.

“You,” Sanghyuk gasps, getting onto his hands and knees, breathless. “You are an—asshole.”

Hakyeon deftly gets to his feet and places both hands on Sanghyuk’s cheeks. His eyes are bright, and when he’s smiling like this, Sanghyuk feels the rest of the world fade away. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole,” he replies softly, and kisses Sanghyuk’s forehead. It’s a kiss that radiates through his entire body, and he’s shuddering as Hakyeon helps him to his feet. “God, you’re ungainly.”

Sanghyuk snorts and leans heavily on Hakyeon. “Ungainly. Now that’s a word I don’t use enough.”

“What can I say? It’s the writer in me.”

“Or the writer in _me_ ,” Sanghyuk replies with a wink—and oh, it’s so satisfying to catch Hakyeon off-guard at this flirting thing, which Sanghyuk will readily admit he’s not very good at. He flushes so pretty and then gives Sanghyuk an indignant shove, sending him across the ice, arms wheeling as he tries to keep his balance, the both of them cackling.

By the time they’re heading out towards Magic Island, Sanghyuk’s feeling happier than he has in months, and he doesn’t even protest when Hakyeon whips out his phone and starts positioning them to take a selfie with the huge castle in the background. They’re just one of a heap of other couples doing the exact same thing, Sanghyuk notices with amusement. Are they all matched? Or do they all live in hope?

“Smile,” Hakyeon says, and Sanghyuk looks at the phone and does his best impression of a smile. It’s apparently good enough for Hakyeon, because, with a few taps of his finger, sets the photo as his wallpaper and shows it to Sanghyuk, looking incredibly satisfied. “There. Now we’re proper boyfriends.”

Sanghyuk rolls his eyes, but reaches for his own phone. “Oh? So before this we were just made-up boyfriends?” He takes a picture of Hakyeon right as he’s running a hand through his hair, and feels his heart skip a beat as he inspects the photo. Hakyeon looks more photogenic than he should, given it was a candid taken with the intent to make him look bad. Is there anything he can’t do?

“Yes.” Hakyeon is deadly serious as he reaches for Sanghyuk’s hand. “Clearly. There are levels to this, don’t you know?”

They’re wandering listlessly now, and Sanghyuk’s about to half-heartedly suggest that they get some food before Hakyeon spots something called a _Romance Tunnel_ and drags Sanghyuk towards it, even though his complaints get louder and louder the closer they go, not least because a Romance Tunnel sounds revolting. It turns out to be a swan boat ride, much to his relief, but the line is full of couples grinning happily and he eyes them with suspicion. “Do you think people fuck on this?” he stage whispers as they join the back of the line, earning a surprised bark of laughter from Hakyeon that he tries to cover up with a cough.

“No,” he whispers back, and then his eyes widen. “Wait. Do you want to try?”

“Don’t be gross!” he blurts, trying to disguise the fact that even the _mention_ of semi-public sex has his heart racing. He feels like a teenager again.

Hakyeon squeezes his hand with a wicked smile. “Sorry. When you look that good I can’t really help myself.”

That leaves Sanghyuk rather lost for words and trying to tamp down a blush that stubbornly ignores him and rises on his cheeks anyway, so instead he falls silent as they work their way through the snaking line. Being that it’s Sunday and the place is full of couples, this is one of the more popular rides, but it moves reasonably fast and before Sanghyuk is prepared they’re being ushered by a bored teenager onto a worse-for-wear swan boat. “I’d hate to get a blacklight on this thing,” he murmurs, and then they’re off, heading towards the titular romance tunnel.

It’s actually sort of pretty, on the inside, for something that Sanghyuk is sure is the epitome of cheese and not actually anything romantic. There’s tiny lights embedded in the ceiling of the tunnel, making it look sort of like stars, if you squint. They’re even playing an Ed Sheeran song, which he supposes is romantic enough if you’re into that sort of thing. He isn’t, and he catches Hakyeon’s eye and raises an eyebrow.

“What?” Hakyeon slides closer and laces their fingers together. “Not feeling the romance?”

Romance is Sanghyuk’s poetry, line after line of it written in Hakyeon’s honour; it’s lying shirtless on his bed with a cigarette and a glass of bourbon and imagining their future together, torturing himself with something he’s still not sure they’ll ever have. It’s the way Hakyeon looks at him, the way he says Sanghyuk’s name, the fire in their skin when they touch. It’s certainly not this—but he smiles and looks down, because Hakyeon’s trying, and it’s unbearably cute. “Oh, I’m feeling it. It just has nothing to do with this.” His eyes fall on Hakyeon’s watch and he touches the face of it somewhat reverently. “How old were you when you got your mark?”

He isn’t surprised when he looks back up to see Hakyeon looking puzzled. “Suddenly you want to talk about marks?”

The question had slipped out, surprising even him, but now that it’s out he’s not regretful in the slightest and shrugs. “Talking about them isn’t the same as… as showing them.”

“True.” Hakyeon shifts a little to twist his wrist back and forth, the face of his watch catching the reflection of the lights above. “I was 16. Just woke up one morning and it was there… I remember my parents being so proud of me. They took so many photos…”

Sanghyuk’s own experience couldn’t be more different. He bites the inside of his cheek, hating the wave of petty jealousy that rolls through him—sometimes it seems that Hakyeon has it all, is floating above the rest of them, untouchable. But he knows it’s not true, and it’s not fair to think. “That’s cute,” he says, and rests his head on Hakyeon’s shoulder. “I was 14. Wonshik and Hongbin always used to make fun of me, called me the late bloomer. They were the rare lucky ones who got theirs at the same time.”

Hakyeon’s hand comes up to stroke Sanghyuk’s hair, and he closes his eyes and relaxes into the touch. The lapping of the water against the side of the boat, and the shifting shapes of the lights on the back of his eyelids, are pleasant sensations even with Ed Sheeran still blasting. It’s why he’s not expecting Hakyeon’s next question, and why he stiffens at his words. “How many people have you shown your mark to?” Hakyeon asks.

He’s not asking how many people have _seen_ Sanghyuk’s mark—no, he’s asking how many people Sanghyuk’s revealed his mark to with hope in his heart that they might be the one. “Five,” he whispers—Soomin, Youngjae, Hyejin, and before them, back in high school, Jimin and then his first, Joonho. “And you, hyung?”

“None.” Hakyeon’s words are little more than a whisper, and when Sanghyuk sits up again there’s a solemnity about his face, about the way he turns Sanghyuk’s hand over to trace the lines of his palm. “No one, not ever.”

Is it because he hasn’t met someone he thought could be a match? Has he been that lonely? Sanghyuk catches the sadness in his words and is speechless, because what can he say? His heartbreaks have torn him open and brought him closer to becoming undone with each one, but they’ve also made him who he is. He is stitched together with the names of the people he’s loved, and he wouldn’t change that even if he could. All of a sudden Hakyeon’s watch takes on a new significance, and Sanghyuk thinks that maybe, just maybe, they might have equal if entirely different complexes about their marks. He lays his hand on the band of the watch, feeling the cool metal underneath his fingertips, and a thrill runs through him as he meets Hakyeon’s gaze.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Hakyeon whispers, “I’m here.”

Sanghyuk doesn’t reply. He can’t. The words are stuck in his throat. Instead he hooks his fingernails underneath the edge of the clasp and leans a little closer because—because what if? All he has to do is lift his fingers and they’ll know, and it’d be easy, it’d be so, so easy. He doesn’t know if he wants to believe, but every second they spend together is slowly changing his mind and he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand things like this. Maybe what they have is real. Maybe they are meant for each other, and all he has to do to find out is lift the clasp. His fingers twitch and he takes a breath in—

His phone buzzes obnoxiously in his pocket, breaking the moment, and he slides away from Hakyeon so violently the swan boat rocks perilously. He can’t bring himself to meet Hakyeon’s eyes, and instead stares at his own hand like it’s betrayed him; in a way, it has. “I’m s-sorry,” he stutters, clenching his fist. “I can’t… I just… I can’t. Not yet. Not yet.”

The disappointment in Hakyeon’s eyes, when Sanghyuk finally works up the courage to look up at him, is so real that Sanghyuk winces. “It’s fine,” he says, and smiles encouragingly, but Sanghyuk notes the way he fiddles self-consciously with his watch. “As I said. Whenever you’re ready.”

Sanghyuk’s phone vibrates again, and he shifts uncomfortably on the seat. It’s probably just Hongbin and Wonshik going off in their group chat, which he should mute but hasn’t. He breathes a sigh of relief as he sees the light at the end of the tunnel, quite literally, and it’s only a few moments more before they’re spilling out into the freedom of fresh air and an Ed Sheeran-less world. The attendant lets them off and then they stand at the exit awkwardly, Hakyeon with both hands jammed into the pockets of his coat and Sanghyuk resisting the urge to check his phone. “Should we get some food?” he suggests, and Hakyeon looks relieved and nods.

As they walk, Sanghyuk pulls his phone out, fully expecting a funny video from Wonshik to be clogging up his notifications. Instead he drops the phone, gasping when it hits the ground with a sickening crunch. He—it _can’t_ be. It can’t be. She… He scoops the phone up and rereads the message on the screen, not sure his eyes are working correctly, his heart racing out of his chest.

 _Soomin: Sanghyuk… I miss you so much. I can’t stop thinking about you. I regret letting my faith in my mark rule me and I want to see you again. We should…_  
_Soomin: Let me know._

He can’t see anymore—the message is cut off—and he’s too paralysed to click it, feelings he thought he’d buried springing up again in an instant. He doesn’t even realise Hakyeon is staring at him strangely until he looks up, and blanches immediately. Hakyeon… Fuck, he wants to throw the phone into the swan boat river. He wishes he’d never read this—because he likes Hakyeon, he likes Hakyeon a lot, but he’s lying if he said he doesn’t still love Soomin.

“You okay?” Hakyeon says, eyes flickering between Sanghyuk and the phone anxiously. “What’s up?”

“Yeah,” Sanghyuk says, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue, coating his teeth and sliding down his throat. “It’s nothing. Let’s go.”

Hakyeon doesn’t say anything as they start walking again, but Sanghyuk can read the doubt and confusion in his face—he’s not very good at hiding it. Sanghyuk’s heart beats with hope and fear and guilt all at once, and his phone burns a hole in his pocket for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise you there is a reason why this fic has so many goddamn sex scenes—i think there's been one in every chapter or close to it???—and i can't tell you it's a good reason but it's a reason nonetheless. maybe i'll tell yall when it's done.
> 
> anyyyyway!!! i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! we had some drama, we have some angst, we have some jerkin off, all the things you need, ya kno? as always thank you so much for reading ♡ ♡


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hakyeon had forgotten how often he used to write, back in those days. he was a different person back then, someone more volatile and open and trusting, someone—
> 
> someone a little like sanghyuk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for the long absence... but we're back in business now folks

The drive to Jaehwan’s place is familiar and comforting.

It is, in fact, barely a drive at all. They both live in Cheongdam-dong, an area in Gangnam that barely stretches two and a half square kilometers. Hakyeon’s apartment complex is at the western end, Jaehwan’s at the eastern, and it’s not until he’s in his car waiting at a set of lights that he wonders why on earth he drives anyway, seeing as it’d take him a mere fifteen minutes to walk, twenty-five if he took the scenic route along the river. He notes, rather grimly, that he’s become far too accustomed to driving or being driven anywhere. He likes to think he’s the same person as he was ten years ago, but it’s becoming harder and harder to believe that.

Jaehwan’d long ago added him to the list of allowed guests, and the security guard at the complex entrance recognises him and waves him in. He parks in his usual spot, next to Jaehwan’s M5, and heads for the lifts, taking in the expanse of luxury cars he’s surrounded by. Perhaps it’s his pensive mood, perhaps it’s Sanghyuk’s continued silence, but the opulence turns his stomach and he grits his teeth and walks faster.

Even though their apartments are on opposite sides of the neighbourhood, they’re strikingly similar. Where Hakyeon prioritised the view, with his apartment opening into an open-plan living room with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the river, Jaehwan has filled his open space with art—paintings (including his original Klimt) and sculptures alike—and an enormous fish tank. Hakyeon’s seen it hundreds of times over the years, but every time he’s drawn to it, and it’s here that Jaehwan finds him: one hand on the glass, staring broodily at the fish swimming amongst the coral.

“Good. You’re here,” Jaehwan says breezily, kissing Hakyeon on the cheek and spinning around to flatten himself against the glass of the tank, sending fish scattering in fright. “I need your help with something.” He pauses, squints, leans in. “Wait, what’s wrong? Is this Sanghyuk drama?”

The tide of emotions that Hakyeon’s been trying to control rises in him—confusion, resentment, anger, sadness—but he swallows them, with difficulty. “Sort of,” he admits. “I mean. I don’t think so? I don’t know.”

“Cool. Well, you can tell me in the car. Come on.” Jaehwan grabs him by the wrist and pulls him away from the tank, and it’s only now that Hakyeon realises he’s dressed, and not just dressed to hang out; he’s wearing a suit jacket and pants, and has on his expensive Louis Vuitton dress shoes that they’d bought together last season.

But Hakyeon’s not in the mood to be dragged anywhere, and he yanks them both to a stop. “Where are we going?”

“Seongbuk-dong. I want to look at a few houses there.”

Hakyeon blinks, once, and then pulls his wrist free. “What on earth for?”

“I just do. Are you coming or not?”

Anger flares in him, white-hot, and he’s surprised at his intensity. And at what? He’s the one that arrived uninvited, he shouldn’t be surprised that Jaehwan’s got things to do, but he knows that’s not it. Seongbuk-dong… It’s a slap in the face, a betrayal. It’s the last thing he needs right now on top of everything else, but he desperately needs _someone_ to talk to about what’s going on (and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious), so he shrugs. “Let’s go, then.”

He follows in Jaehwan’s wake, back down to the garage where they slip wordlessly into Jaehwan’s Merc—the S65 Coupe, the most inconspicuous of all his cars. It’s not until they’re crossing the river, cruising at a comfortable speed, that Jaehwan starts speaking. “So. What’s up? How was your date? You guys went to Lotte World, right?”

“I mean… I thought it went well. But… he got weird at the end. And he’s been weird since. We’re talking, but I can tell he’s preoccupied—one-word answers and the like.”

Jaehwan gives him a sidelong glance, one he recognises. “And have you talked to him about it?”

And there it is, the crux of the issue—because he can only tolerate so much more of Sanghyuk’s weird hot-and-cold moods, but he doesn’t want to press it and spook him and scare him away even more. It’s a vicious cycle, and one he hates. They had a good date on Sunday, and now it’s Wednesday, and they don’t have to talk every day but—but the fact of the matter is that he’s been distant and that it’s driving Hakyeon insane and that’s that.

“No,” he sighs, tracing a seam in the buttery black leather of the armrest. “I don’t want to freak him out, you know? He’s so… skittish.”

There’s a pause where Jaehwan changes lanes. “Yeah, but come on, he’s an adult. You guys aren’t in high school. There’s gotta be a point where he gets over it—”

“And what if he doesn’t!”

“—Then you have to draw some lines, hyung.” Jaehwan casts an eye over him. “It’s not fair of him to keep you on your toes like this. I mean, you’re not asking to show him your mark, right? You don’t wanna marry him, for fuck’s sake. You just want communication.”

That’s all Hakyeon’s wanted from the beginning, but he’d fucked up there, too—so much of his life he’s accustomed to keeping secret from the people he meets every day that in doing so to Sanghyuk he’s probably inspired some of the mistrust that’s now biting him in the ass.

Vicious cycle. Et al.

“Fuck,” he sighs, slumping down in his seat and scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “We’re just—I want it to work, so badly. But…”

“Don’t say but!”

“But there’s so many fucking things standing in our way, half of them our own doing—it shouldn’t be this difficult this early on. We should be, you know, high on endorphins and being in love.”

At this Jaehwan sits up a little straighter, his eyes widening. “Do… you love him?”

Yes, Hakyeon wants to say, his heart staring to race, even though the prospect frightens him vaguely—something he hasn’t admitted to himself so far and isn’t willing to start now. “Don’t know,” he replies stubbornly instead, slapping away Jaehwan’s hands sneaking over the central console to try and tickle the truth out of him. “Fuck off. I don’t.”

Jaehwan doesn’t reply. He fiddles with the radio instead, so they’re no longer in silence, but once they’re across the river and stuck in the middle of a traffic jam around city hall he sighs and half-turns in his seat to face Hakyeon. “Do you know what being in love is like?”

“What the hell? Of course I do.”

“Yeah? ‘Cause, forgive me for being skeptical, hyung, but you’ve never even dated anyone the entire time we’ve been friends. So I think it’s a valid question.”

Words burn in his throat, begging to be released, and it would be so easy to let his anger simmer over and spill into the car between them—he’s been looking for an excuse for a fight, really. But it’s not fair on Jaehwan. Logically he knows the question makes him so defensive because he’s right. It’s been so long that he’s forgotten. “I’ve been in love before.”

“With who?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“Because,” Jaehwan yells, startling Hakyeon so much he jumps and hits his head on the ceiling, “ _this_ is why you and Sanghyuk are having all these issues. Don’t you see? He’s an open book of emotions and you’re emotionally constipated—”

“I’m not emotionally constipated!”

Jaehwan shakes his head and accelerates away as the lights go green. “There’s no point trying if you’re just going to get so defensive at everything I say, hyung—”

“Whatever,” Hakyeon snaps, turning away to stare out the window. “I don’t want to hear this.”

They don’t speak for the rest of the drive. Jaehwan’s—well, who knows what Jaehwan is thinking; he’s an enigma at the best of times. But Hakyeon’s mind is turning thoughts over faster than he can process them, unasked-for memories hitting him all at once, almost overwhelming in their intensity.  
  


_eight years ago_

  
“Hakyeon.”

There’s something in the tone of Junho’s voice that makes him pause from where he’s digging through his bookshelf looking for a blank notebook—he knows he bought one just the other day, knowing he’d need one soon with all the writing he’s been doing. He can’t even remember the last time he was this prolific. It’s a nice feeling, to open a blank notebook and anticipate all the words that will be written in it… or at least it would be, if he could find the damned thing.

He turns to see Junho sitting on his shitty dorm-standard single bed, just as he’d been a moment ago—but he notices the details, he always notices the details, and the first thing he sees is the band that always stays clasped around Junho’s calf on the floor, which means—

“Junho,” he gasps, and then he’s falling on his ass ungracefully, because the mark standing out against the pale of Junho’s skin is a beautiful silhouette of a fox, elegant and perfect and absolutely not familiar at all. “What the hell—you’re meant to _ask_ —”

“Please tell me you match.” Junho’s voice is hoarse, hoarser than Hakyeon’s ever heard him, and Hakyeon can’t even bear to look in his eyes. The pain slides into his heart neatly, pointy and painful, making him gasp. “Hakyeon, please tell me it’s a match, I can’t live without you—”

“Don’t—”

“ _Please_ ,” Junho begs, and Hakyeon closes his eyes and shakes his head as if he can will this entire situation away. They were meant to be fucking perfect. They were meant to be matched, they were meant to—no, this isn’t how it was meant to go, _no_. He digs his fingers into his thighs just to feel something, anything. His head feels like it’s full of cotton wool.

“We don’t match,” he barks, and if he sounds angry it’s because he feels it—this is _not how it’s meant to be!_ “We don’t fucking match, Junho—”

“Show me—”

Junho falls off the bed onto the floor, reaching for Hakyeon’s wrist, but he wrenches it free from his grasp and holds it behind his back, out of Junho’s reach. “No!”

They just stare at each other, panting, and Hakyeon wonders how someone he thought he knew so well could become a stranger in a matter of seconds. Revealing a match is a ritual, almost; sacrosanct and left over from Hakyeon’s grandparents’ time. One party asks and if consent is given, both reveal their marks at the same time. To just rip off your covering and reveal your mark without warning is—it’s ghastly, and it’s completely unfair. It’s a last-ditch resort, reserved for the drama of movies and TV but rarely practiced in real life, and Hakyeon now understands why. He’s left feeling bereft. He didn’t even get a choice to decide. One moment they _were_ , or at least _maybe_ were, and now!

Now they are _not_.

“How could you,” he whispers, tears filling his eyes. He doesn’t wipe them away, lets them fall; it’s not the first time he’s cried in front of Junho although, he realises with a horrible sinking feeling, it’s probably going to be the last. “How _could_ you?”

“We were going to have to do it sooner or later,” Junho hiccups, reaching for his band and yanking it back over his mark. “I knew you’d never ask.”

It’s not that Hakyeon was never going to ask. He was just waiting for the right moment, and it had never seemed to produce itself, and before he knew it they’d been dating a year and were practically living together with the amount of time Junho spent in his dorm room. It’d seemed pointless to disrupt the status quo, even if the urge to _know_ was always present in the back of his mind. And now… well, now it’s all over, isn’t it?

“It’s done,” he whispers, and sees the confirmation reflected in Junho’s eyes. “We’re finished.”

*******

It’s a few days before he can pull himself together enough to get out of bed and get dressed. He finds the new notebook tucked behind a collection of Wilfred Owen poems he’d had to buy for a unit this semester and found himself rereading over and over again, and tucks it into his bag along with a pack of cigarettes, his zippo, and his mp3 player. He finds his way to the river, walking blindly without seeing, and it’s not until he gets there and lights a cig that he realises he’s grabbed Junho’s shitty menthols by mistake and inhales furiously to get it over and done with, loathe to waste a cigarette even though they’re cheap. The wind still carries with it the biting frost of the winter just gone, even though the air smells like spring, and it’s so oddly fitting for his black mood that almost before he can think about it he grabs his notebook and starts scribbling away.

The only good thing about heartbreak and pain is the inspiration it serves. He fills page after page with poetry, most of it awful but some of it decent and even less actually good. But still he writes and writes and writes, for he can do nothing less, because the words are screaming and railing inside him, demanding to be set free. He only stops because he runs out of cigarettes right around sunset, but even on the bus back to the dorm the words still run around and around inside his head. He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling. Pain, certainly. Sadness. Grief. Anger. A general malaise.

When he’s shut inside the safety of his dorm room, he undoes the clasp on his watch, lets it drop to the floor and stares at his mark on his wrist. After four years of staring at it, the lines and shapes of it are simultaneously familiar and alien. When he runs his fingers over it, he gets goosebumps all over his body, and turns away from the mirror so he doesn’t have to see it anymore. It’s not a fox, not even close, but he wishes it was. He wishes more than anything, even though he knows it’s pointless, and that just makes him feel worse.

His bed, when he climbs back into it, still smells of Junho, and he curls up in the comfort of the familiar and allows himself this small delusion.

  
_present_   
  


“We’re here.”

Jaehwan’s voice shocks him out of his past and back into his present, and feelings long-buried slam into him so hard that he grabs onto the door handle just to ground himself. What the—? He hasn’t thought of Junho in years. He’d looked him up once, just to see what’d happened, and as it turns out he’s happily matched to a man who went to their uni. Hakyeon hadn’t even felt a twinge when he saw the photos of them together on facebook, but now? There’s a reason he doesn’t think of that time; it fucking _hurts_. And the poetry… he’d forgotten how often he used to write, back in those days. He was a different person back then, someone more volatile and open and trusting, someone—

Someone a little like Sanghyuk.

“Where are we?” he mutters, refusing to even revisit that thought in detail and instead refocusing on the world around him. He realises that it’s pointless even asking, though, as soon as he pays attention to what he’s seeing—they’re parked in front of a traditional Joseon-style hanok, and the stressed-looking woman standing in front of the car is no doubt a real estate agent given her suit and packet of paperwork she’s holding. “I didn’t even realise these ever came up for sale.”

Jaehwan raises an eyebrow. “They don’t, not usually. Hence why we’re here.”

Before Hakyeon can get the last word, Jaehwan hops out of the car and slams the door shut behind him, shaking the agent’s hand with the smile he reserves for when he’s trying to be charming. For a few seconds Hakyeon can’t even make himself move. All those times he’d said Jaehwan should go easier on the old money types—he didn’t realise it’d come to _this_ , and finds himself wishing he’d said nothing at all.

“And this is my friend Cha Hakyeon,” Jaehwan says once Hakyeon has steeled himself enough to get out of the car.

The agent is young, probably around Sanghyuk’s age, but she’s clearly done her research into who’s-who of the city—or at least, who’s-who that can afford to buy a place like this—because her eyes widen almost imperceptibly before she shakes Hakyeon’s hand with a smile. “Lovely to meet you, sir. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

It takes a few moments before Hakyeon realises she’s referring to the hanok behind her, and he raises an eyebrow. “If you like that sort of thing,” he replies, just to see her face crease in confusion.

“Let’s start the tour, shall we?” Jaehwan butts in, shooting Hakyeon a murderous glare with more weight behind it than Hakyeon anticipated.

He resigns himself to trailing along behind them as the agent launches into her spiel. The house is beautiful, there’s no doubt about that, but it’s not his style; he prefers modern and minimal architecture, open spaces and lines of glass and metal. Hanoks are nothing but wood as far as the eye can see and he often feels cramped inside them. Why Jaehwan’s even looking at this place is completely beyond him, but he doesn’t even get a chance to ask. He and the agent are glued at the hip as they chat happily away about the features of the house, the courtyard, the tiles, and when they’re forty-five minutes in Hakyeon finds himself contemplating calling Taekwoon to send the car to pick him up.

“Would you mind giving us a moment to discuss?” Jaehwan says to the agent as they stand in the courtyard, sidling up to Hakyeon and smiling a smile that’s all teeth and superfluous charisma.

“Of course,” she murmurs, bowing at them and disappearing back into the house.

Hakyeon doesn’t say a word. He just waits for Jaehwan to speak, and he doesn’t last very long—Hakyeon has to deal with the board members every other week, whereas Jaehwan hasn’t set foot in a boardroom in his life and has no defences to Hakyeon’s withering stare. “Well, what do you think?”

“I think you’ve lost your mind.”

This makes Jaehwan whirl, his face schooled into an expression of surprised anger. “You need to stop taking out your boyfriend issues on me—”

“Do not bring Sanghyuk into this,” Hakyeon hisses, stepping closer and folding his arms over his chest. “You know what it looks like, moving into this neighborhood. They won’t welcome you, if that’s what you want.”

“You’re the one that wanted me to be nicer to the chaebols—”

“I wanted you to be nicer to them, not be their neighbours!” Hakyeon shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “They’re never going to stop looking down on us, you know. All the money and hanoks in the world can’t fix that.”

Jaehwan narrows his eyes and turns away, his Italian leather shoes crunching on the gravel. “I don’t understand you.”

“The feeling is mutual,” Hakyeon mutters dryly.

The divide between the new rich of self-made trillionaires like him (and Jaehwan, because even though he received his wealth through an inheritance it’s only one generation old), and the old money types of the chaebol heirs, is not just societal but geographical as well. The chaebols built this country, dragged it from the muck and made it what it is today—as they are so fond of reminding everyone. As such they mostly live in this area, Seongbuk-dong, in hanoks or more commonly brand-new modern mansions. It’s one of the oldest parts of Seoul, nestled in the mountains behind the palaces and surrounded by the remnants of the old city wall, perfectly befitting the families of the monolithic corporations that contribute untold amounts of wealth to the country’s GDP. New money types, on the other hand, mostly reside in Gangnam-gu, specifically Apgujeong-dong or where he and Jaehwan live, Cheongdam-dong. The area south of the river was only developed in the seventies, and it shows. It’s a system that works: the new money get the entire south side of the city to play in, and the old money stay where they’ve always been, near the heart of the government.

So why Jaehwan—as new-money as they come—wants to suddenly pack up and move to a district where he’d be neighbours with the people who have been looking down their noses at them for the past five years, Hakyeon has no idea. He tries to get along with most of their acquaintances around their age, because most of them aren’t awful (like Jaehyo), but their families are another story. If Jaehwan wants to set tongues waggling there’s easier ways to do so.

As he watches Jaehwan wandering aimlessly around the courtyard, the anger drains out of him suddenly, leaving him exhausted. He wasn’t lying when he told Sanghyuk that Taekwoon and Jaehwan were all he had, and they so rarely fight. Even if he doesn’t agree with Jaehwan’s choice in real estate it doesn’t mean he has to be such an asshole about it; Sanghyuk’s continued near-silence is getting to him more than he thought it would.

“I’m sorry,” he says, loud enough for Jaehwan to hear and look up. “You’re right. I shouldn’t be taking out all my bullshit on you.”

In lieu of a reply, Jaehwan just makes a beeline for Hakyeon and barrels into him, wrapping both arms around him and pulling him into a bear hug. They stay like that for a few moments, just holding each other and appreciating the comfort in the platonic—and that’s how the agent finds them, her gasp loud enough to send them leaping apart and then bursting into laughter in perfect sync.

_four years ago_   
  


There’s still many things about this new life of his that Hakyeon isn’t used to, but by far the strangest is Taekwoon folding himself into the car next to him, producing a thick ream of paper from his briefcase, and handing it to Hakyeon with no fanfare. “What’s this?”

“Your briefing,” Taekwoon replies, voice as smooth as ever.

“Briefing?” Hakyeon looks up at him, hopelessly lost. “For a _party?_ ”

If Taekwoon has the urge to roll his eyes—and Hakyeon suspects he does—he doesn’t show it. Instead he just nods, the silver earrings he always wears swinging wildly and catching the light of the streetlights going past. “Some of the most important people in the country who aren’t politicians are going to be there. Some who _are_ politicians, too. You’ll be expected to know their names and faces and what chaebol they’re part of.”

“All these people?” Hakyeon asks miserably, flicking through the first few sheets.

At this Taekwoon smiles. “I thought you’d say that. So…” He expertly splits the pile into two, handing Hakyeon the smaller section and putting the thicker one back in his briefcase. “These are the essentials. Everyone else… well, I’m sure you can charm your way out of ignorance. You’re good at that.” Before Hakyeon can react to the compliment—the first Taekwoon’s ever given him—he taps the first sheet. “I’ve arranged them in order of who I think is most important to you. This is Lee Jaehwan.”

Hakyeon picks up the page and stares at it. There’s even a photo, and he can’t stop himself from raising his eyebrows—what is this, a bad spy movie? _Lee Jaehwan, 21 years old, lives in Cheongdam-dong,_ the bio reads. _Likes: painting, collecting art, German cars, cacti. Dislikes: horror films, dishonesty, whiskey, snobs. Relationship status: single, unmatched._

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Taekwoon,” Hakyeon says faintly, “but how do you know all this?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but this is exactly what you hired me to do,” Taekwoon replies, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I think you’ll like Jaehwan. He’s… like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s…” Taekwoon pauses delicately. “He’s new to this sort of thing as well. He wasn’t born into wealth. An uncle inherited a large sum from a distant relative who died. The uncle died and because he didn’t have children, the sum went to Jaehwan’s parents, who built their wealth through real estate development, particularly overseas. They died three years ago and Jaehwan inherited it all.”

Hakyeon skims through the rest of the paper, which sums up everything Taekwoon just said. “Pretty shit luck.”

“Yes. That’s all I was able to gather. Jaehwan doesn’t appear to like talking about his past much. He does modelling sometimes, and he paints, although I believe he sells his work under a pseudonym. He hasn’t had to work for his wealth, so he’s not very well respected amongst his peers.”

The photo shows a strikingly beautiful man, all sharp features tempered by full lips and eyes that are almost elfin. “Most of the chaebol heirs haven’t done a day’s work in their life, so I don’t know why they’re respected and he isn’t.” He puts the paper back on the pile. “Although I’m a little confused as to why he’s so important for me to know. If he doesn’t work, how can he be a business associate of Wisdom House? Unless you’re thinking a spokesperson or something—”

“Mr Cha,” Taekwoon sighs (Hakyeon’s asked him time and time again to call him by his first name, but he can’t quite manage it). “I don’t think he’s important for you to know because of work. I think you two could be friends.” He says this last part slowly and seriously, like he’s speaking to a six year old. “Perhaps I’m being presumptuous. If so, please tell me. But you spend most of your time at the office and—”

“Alright,” Hakyeon snaps, although there’s no heat behind it. “I get it. I’m a shut-in. Understood. Who’s next?”

They spend the rest of the drive there going over the important people in Taekwoon’s brief until their faces and titles—heir to Lotte group, heir to Hyundai group, heir to Samsung group, heir to LG group, heir to Kumho Asiana group—all start to blur together, and if Hakyeon wasn’t feeling thoroughly intimidated before, he certainly is now. He still can’t quite understand how the company he started two years ago has grown to the point where he’s on his way to one of the most prestigious parties in the whole country. Oh, of course he understands it in a linear way: through a series of mergers, buy-outs, international expansions and smart business decisions, they moved from their tiny little building in Hongdae to the one they currently occupy in Gangnam. He could suddenly afford to—and was expected to—buy fancy cars and clothes and hire a personal assistant. So he did, because that’s what is expected of him. But to say that he’s lost in the reality of his new wealth is the understatement of the century; Taekwoon, and a metric fuckton of coffee, is the only thing keeping him afloat right now.

“Are you ready?” Taekwoon asks as the car pulls up out the front of a house the looks of which Hakyeon’s only ever heard about but never actually been near.

“Not in the slightest,” he murmurs, realising as he looks down that his hands are shaking. Taekwoon’d told him that, since Wisdom House had passed a threshold of per-capita worth, he should be expected to be invited to parties like this on the regular (what that threshold is, he wasn’t told). But he’s utterly terrified. He doesn’t belong here.

“You’ll be fine.” Taekwoon’s voice is warm, reassuring, and he pulls Hakyeon in for a hug that’s as welcome as it is unexpected. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Thank god he has a convenient excuse for insisting Taekwoon accompany him—he’s expecting a call from his overseas investors any moment, and needs his personal assistant on hand to help with that. In reality, though, it’s just so he doesn’t keel over after his first glass of champagne, or feign illness to leave early. Taekwoon is both his helper and his minder.

“Oh! Don’t forget this.” Taekwoon reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a mask—because as if Hakyeon’s life wasn’t hard enough, tonight’s party is a masquerade ball; he’d conveniently forgotten that little detail.

He obliges and takes the mask. It’s strikingly simple, just black velvet in a shape that frames his eyes, but when he puts it on it moulds to his face as if it was made to be there and Taekwoon nods approvingly. “Right,” he mutters, more to himself than to Taekwoon. “Off we go, then.”

Inhale. Exhale. He steps from the car into the flash of cameras, and automatically starts smiling.

*******

The first hour or so passes in a montage of glares and snide comments that Hakyeon wasn’t prepared for in the slightest. Taekwoon had warned him in the weeks before that at first he wouldn’t be received well, since he’s new money. But the reality is nothing like what he’s imagining. The people around his age—sons and daughters of the chaebol leaders, heirs and presidents-to-be—seem alright for the most part, but anyone over the age of 35 treats him like he’s shit on the bottom of their shoe. The worst part is they don’t even come out and say it outright. It’s the little ways they look at each other when he’s speaking, the eye-rolling, the laughter when he walks away.

He is completely exhausted.

“This,” Taekwoon murmurs, steering him towards a tall man helping himself to another glass of champagne from a waiter with a tray, “is Lee Jaehwan.”

Hakyeon gathers up what little pride he has left and steps forward with a smile. “Hello. Cha Hakyeon,” he says, offering his hand for Jaehwan to shake.

Jaehwan turns, and Hakyeon is almost offended at what he’s faced with. Jaehwan is wearing a suit that looks like it’s moulded to his body and a rose gold mask, accented with silver and with rows of tiny perfect pearls all along the bottom. It’s gorgeous, there’s no doubt about that. But the open display of such wealth leaves a nasty taste in his mouth—he’s seen more pearls tonight than he has in his entire life—and he shoots Taekwoon a glare as he walks away nonchalantly. This is the man he was talking up so much? The one he wants Hakyeon to be friends with?

“Lee Jaehwan,” replies Jaehwan, taking Hakyeon’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “That’s not the proper way to introduce yourself, you know.”

Resisting the urge to turn and walk away, Hakyeon grits his teeth. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” Jaehwan smiles, but it’s not a mocking smile. “You’re meant to say what you’re heir of. Or CEO of. Or whatever. It’s a status thing, you know?”

Hakyeon doesn’t know. He doesn’t even _want_ to know. But he plays along because he has no choice. “Shall we start again, then? Hello. I’m Cha Hakyeon, CEO and President of Wisdom House Publishing.”

“Lee Jaehwan.” They shake hands again. “CEO and heir to nothing. There, see? You’ll fit right in.”

The worst part is Hakyeon can’t quite tell if Jaehwan is taking the piss or not—he’s been left so off-balance by all his encounters earlier in the evening that his judgement is soured. His immediate instinct is to distrust, so he bites back any small-talk he was going to make and waits for Jaehwan to speak first.

He cracks surprisingly easily, uncomfortable in the silence. “How’re you finding it so far? You’re new to this kind of shit, right?”

“You could say that,” Hakyeon murmurs. “It’s been awful.”

“Don’t take it personally.” Jaehwan shrugs and snags a canapé from a waiter flying past. “There’s one thing the rich don’t like, and it’s change. You represent change, so they hate you. They hated me at first, too. It just takes time.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Jaehwan smiles, a proper wide grin that Hakyeon can’t help smiling back at. “There’s a divide between old rich and new rich in this city. Always has been. And guess what? We’re the only two new rich at this party.”

“Explains why no-one’s talking to us,” Hakyeon says, which earns a snort from Jaehwan. There’s a distinct circle around them, like they’re contagious, and while it stings it’s also nice to have company. “So what do you do in your spare time?”

But Jaehwan’s distracted. Hakyeon turns to see what he’s looking at and sees a gorgeous woman around their age crossing the floor. Her walk is confident and self-assured and when she moves past them she looks at them—well, she looks through Hakyeon, but she certainly looks at Jaehwan. Her dress is navy and made of what looks to be silk, flowing like water around her as she swans across the floor. If Hakyeon was attracted to women he’d certainly be interested, and he turns back to Jaehwan to vocalise that thought when two men peel off from their left and follow after her.

“‘four lean hounds crouched low and smiling,’” Jaehwan murmurs, and Hakyeon blinks at him, startled. “‘the sheer peaks ran before.’”

“‘paler be they than daunting death / the sleek slim deer / the tall tense deer,’” Hakyeon finishes automatically, his heart starting to race. “You know that poem?”

Jaehwan just stares at him for a long moment. “Ye-es,” he says, drawing out the syllables. “It’s one of my favourites.”

Hakyeon has so many questions, starting and ending with _why did you memorise it?_ and ending with _who was she?_ but instead he just smiles, proper and genuine, the first real smile he’s smiled all night. “You have good taste,” he replies, and raises his glass to Jaehwan. “To ee cummings.”

“To ee cummings,” Jaehwan echoes, and then he reaches out and slings an arm around Hakyeon’s shoulder. “And to new friends.”

  
_present_

  
They see two more houses—these more in line with Hakyeon’s style, huge modern mansions with views of the whole city below—before heading back over the river. Jaehwan had told the realtor he needed time to think, and Hakyeon can tell it’s not a lie. He’s pensive and quiet as they drive.

“Would you really move out here?” Hakyeon murmurs, hoping he sounds less pathetic than he feels. Taekwoon already lives on the north side of the city, near the university where Gayeong teaches at; if Jaehwan was to move away too he would have no one.

Jaehwan shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m thinking about it. I really like Cheongdam but I’m feeling weirdly restless.”

“Seven year itch?”

“Something like that.”

Hakyeon sighs. “Why don’t we look at some new apartments around Cheongdam too? You know there’s always new complexes being built. Or Hannam, I hear that area is really starting to take off.”

He doesn’t think Jaehwan will agree, but to his surprise he smiles, nodding. “Yeah. That’d be good. Do you wanna come back to mine? I can get Seokjin to order us food or something.”

Seokjin, Jaehwan’s poor long-suffering assistant, has way more on his plate than what Taekwoon has to put up with. He’s practically on-call 24/7 and although Jaehwan pays him a great wage, there’s not been a time where they’ve met and he hasn’t looked stressed. The idea of Seokjin ordering them delivery because Jaehwan’s too lazy to is the epitome of the ridiculousness of the mega rich, and Hakyeon just snorts and shakes his head. “You are _so_ out of touch.”

“Hey, just because you’re now slumming it with your boyfriend—” Jaehwan teases, which earns him a pinch on his waist. “Ow! Not while I’m driving, hyung—”

Hakyeon acquiesces, settling back into his seat, not without one last swat at Jaehwan’s head. “Just drop me at home. I have manuscripts to go over.”

It’s not until they pull into his garage that Jaehwan speaks again, fiddling with his hands and steadfastly refusing to meet Hakyeon’s eyes. “Hyung,” he starts, tone hesitant. “Why did you stop writing?”

It’s not that Hakyeon’s been particularly secretive about this, because he’s told Jaehwan the story before. He speaks about it about as much as Jaehwan speaks about his childhood, which is rarely, and that’s just the way it’s always been. They both became new people when they came into wealth, shedding their old selves like snakeskins. Who they were before has just seemed irrelevant. His first reaction is to get defensive, and he takes a deep breath in to ask Jaehwan why it matters before—

He’s already lost his temper once today. He does not need a repeat of that.

“You know this,” he reminds Jaehwan gently. “My teachers said I was shit, and then I got my first rejection letter. It was too much so I changed majors and stopped writing and that was that. Why do you ask?”

“I was just thinking…”

“Oh, that’s dangerous.”

Jaehwan sticks out his tongue. “Shut up. I was just thinking, being around Sanghyuk… doesn’t it make you miss it?”

“You’re introspective today,” Hakyeon rebuts.

“I’ve just noticed… you’re different, since you started seeing him.” This gets Hakyeon’s attention, and he sits up straight, heart starting to pound. “Not in a bad way. It’s like there’s a light behind your eyes. I wondered if the poetry had anything to do with it.” He pauses, grins, wolfish and playful. “Or the dick you’re getting every other day—”

“Right,” Hakyeon growls, lunging across the centre console to jab Jaehwan in as many soft places as he possibly can. “That’s enough attitude from you—”

He howls and squirms but can’t get away; Hakyeon knows all his weak spots and tickles him until he’s breathless and begging for mercy and apologising. Their friendship, when it’s not being disrupted by weird contemplative moods on the parts of both of them, is easy and natural. He really doesn’t know where he’d be without Jaehwan or Taekwoon. The both of them keep him afloat in ways he doesn’t even realise.

When he makes it up to his flat, he pulls his shirt over his head and pads up the stairs to his bedroom, shucking his clothes as he goes to leave a trail of crumpled fabric behind him. Stark naked, he slides in between his sheets—egyptian cotton with a stupidly high thread count, freshly washed and pressed thanks to the maid—and pulls up Sanghyuk’s message thread.

_thanks for a great day today! miss you already ♡_   
_Sunday, 7:48 pm_

_thanks hyung. miss u too_   
_Sunday, 7:57 pm_

_what’re you up to today?_   
_Monday, 1:23 pm_

_working_   
_Monday, 2:31 pm_

_how’s jiho? not being too hard on you, is he? :p_   
_Monday, 2:33 pm_

_he’s being a hardass as per usual but it’s bearable_   
_barely_   
_i’ll talk to u later hyung, things are picking up_   
_ <3_   
_Monday, 2:54 pm_

And that’s it. Radio silence since Monday. Hakyeon may not be experienced with this whole dating thing, but he can tell when someone’s being distant and weird, and that’s exactly what Sanghyuk’s being—distant and weird. He’s replayed their date on Sunday over and over in his mind, trying to figure out what could have triggered this, but all he has in the series of events is a text Sanghyuk got on the swan boat ride that seemed to make him go all funny. Or maybe it wasn’t the text at all. Maybe it’s the fact that he’d nearly taken Hakyeon’s watch off, revealed it all; maybe it’s because he could sense the desperation in Hakyeon’s blood, beating in time with his heart, _I want to know I want to know I want to know_ over and over again.

At least, it seems, Sanghyuk is used to these feelings. Hakyeon is not. He feels adrift and alone, confused and without answers. It’s been so long since he’s been anything but the cool, calm and collected CEO, simply because he couldn’t _not_ be—he did not have a choice. Unlike Jaehwan he could never seem to let go enough to throw himself into the void enough to date somebody, and it’s only just now that he’s beginning to realise why.

“Fuck you,” he mutters, raising his wrist in the air and glaring at his watch.

Seeing as he’s been driven to talking to parts of himself, he figures that’s all the wallowing in misery he’s allowed for the day and slides out of bed again, leaving his phone behind. He pulls on his comfy sweatpants and flannel shirt and makes his way into his study, flopping into the seat at his desk and staring at the pile of manuscripts he has to look over. He’d taken a day off work with the justification that he’d work from home, and even though now he’s faced with the prospect he finds he just wants to go back to bed, he steels himself and picks up the first submission.

All of the submissions that get filtered through to him are ones that have already been looked over by editors—he never gets works immediately as they come in for evaluation. Even then, what he sees is only a fraction of the submissions that get approved. Between running the company and trying to appease the board and investors, he just doesn’t have enough time to do any actual publishing; he tries to savour these moments as much as he can, even if he only manages to read a few submissions a week.

The manuscript he has in front of him is called _until the dark_ by someone called Lee Taeil, and he fingers the pink post-it note on the front, no doubt left by one of the editors: _‘great use of rhyme + imagery, promising?’_ It’s a rather thin manuscript, as first submissions often are, and he tries to relax in his seat as he flips over the first page. At first he just skim-reads, but the editor’s note was right; Taeil, whoever he is, has a fantastic grasp on rhyme and wordplay, and his poems are all wonderfully, woefully vivid.

He’s almost jealous, in a way. Rhyme was never his specialty. Like Sanghyuk, his poetry was nearly always free verse, more raw than polished. He never really got a chance to improve; he took that chance away from himself before he could ever really begin.

  
_eight years ago_   
  


“Sorry I’m late,” Hakyeon blurts, letting himself into the small room and shutting the door behind him. “There was an accident, so the bus took ages…”

His professor, a mild-mannered man in his mid-forties who looks almost like an owl, with curious, wide-eyed features, smiles at him and waves at the seat across the desk from him. “It’s fine. Have a seat.”

Hakyeon does, lowering himself into the cracked leather warily. He still has no idea why he’s been summoned. The only other time he’s had to present himself to this office was last semester, when he had to ask for an extension on his assignments because he was helping his parents move and they’d all underestimated just how much work it was to prepare to uproot everything and go overseas. This time he’d just been told to come to Prof Lee’s office with no explanation, something that makes him extremely nervous and even more nervous still when he spots his final submissions from last semester lying underneath Prof Lee’s gently clasped hands.

“Hakyeon,” the professor starts, “what do you want to _do?”_

“Sir?”

“After university, I mean.”

He blinks. “Um. I want to write? Poetry, I mean.”

There’s a long pause, where Prof Lee looks down at the submissions underneath his hands and sighs. “I see. And have you thought of any other options?”

“Other options?” Hakyeon repeats, not understanding.

It’s here that the professor takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, and something not unlike fear threads its way between Hakyeon’s ribs, startling and paralysing. “One thing to understand is that it’s incredibly difficult trying to get by as a writer, and that’s just looking at prose and fiction authors. Poetry… is a different game altogether. It’s a niche market. A lot of prospective poets end up going into academia simply because they don’t know what else to do, and even that’s becoming more and more difficult these days. Getting tenure is nearly impossible.”

The words are just white noise, echoes and snippets of meaningless sound that ricochet around the room and leave him even more confused than he was before. Prof Lee is clearly trying to tell him something, he knows, but he can’t figure out what; the answer is within reach but still a mystery, and he bites his lip hard enough to taste blood. “I… don’t want to be an academic, sir.”

“Then perhaps you should think about changing your major.” The Professor says this kindly, but the words are a complete smack to the face, the likes of which Hakyeon has never felt before. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Hakyeon, because I’m just trying to think of your future. But with grades like yours, your career prospects are… limited.”

“My grades are fine,” Hakyeon replies dreamily. “B pluses and A minuses in everything—”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean that your poetry is good enough for you to make a living wage off of it.”

And there it is. The cards laid out on the table. Hakyeon’s future spelled out for him in no uncertain terms: _you are a failure. You are not good enough_. The shock is so visceral that he rears back in his seat, throat tightening and burning with the onset of tears that he will not let spill over. He doesn’t even know what to say. The anger and the hurt mingle with the inadequacies he’s always felt but never admitted, going straight to his stomach and making him feel like he’s going to be sick. “Then what would you have me do?” he manages to croak. “This is all I know how to do—all I’m good at—”

For the briefest second, before Prof Lee can quiet his features, there flashes an emotion so recognisable that Hakyeon nearly _does_ throw up, all over that nice oak desk. It’s pity. Pity for him, pity that he really believes that he’s good at this. Oh, _God_. “Your marks in your English Literature subjects in your freshman year were quite good. Maybe you could pursue an English Lit major instead? The career prospects with that are better than for creative writing, anyway. You can get a job as a publisher or editor…”

But Hakyeon’s not listening anymore. He sits and nods along to the noises coming out of the professor’s mouth, unable to think of anything except _you’re not good enough you’re not good enough you’re not good enough,_ the words racing through his brain in time to his heart. When the professor finally dismisses him there’s still a look of pity in his eyes, and Hakyeon only makes it halfway back to the dorm before leaning over and throwing up into a bush, tears streaming down his face.

He’s still adjusting to life alone, and he’d thought he’d been coping. The breakup with Junho and his parents announcing they were moving to Australia had come back-to-back, and for a while it’d been okay; he’d been able to stave off mourning the death of his relationship as he helped them pack up their lives and then waved them off at the airport. But this—he could never have prepared for something like this. He has no friends, no family, no boyfriend, no one he can even talk to about his whole future crumbling to dust in front of his eyes, and he is completely and utterly lost, disoriented in a world which was just so familiar to him moments ago.

*******

He smokes and he drinks and he writes, but his heart isn’t in any of it. His heart isn’t in anything, really. He goes to classes and takes notes but does it all on autopilot. The professor’s words are constantly running through his mind, even when he’s trying to sleep or in the shower, and it slowly transforms from a battle to an all-out war.

He has never felt so adrift.

There are two choices, from what he can gather, sketching them out in one of his notebooks one evening in his dorm room. He can either go against Prof Lee’s advice and continue with his creative writing major and hope that the professor is wrong, or he can switch majors, possibly guaranteeing him a career. There’s pros and cons for each, but as he stares at the neat list, his stomach twists. He loses in either situation. He doesn’t win at all, no matter what he does. And it’s all fucking hopeless.

The next morning, he gets a letter.

At first he thinks it’s from his parents; he’s taught them how to use email time and time again but they still prefer writing letters the old-fashioned way, with pen and paper and stamps and envelopes (not that Hakyeon minds, really; it’s endearing). But this envelope is cheap, the paper thin, and his name is not handwritten on the front but rather printed. The return address, a PO box, gives nothing away, and so lazily he flops down on his bed and sticks his thumb under the flap.

_Dear Cha Hakyeon-ssi,_

_We’d like to thank you for your submission to King & Crick. We appreciate all submissions sent in and we are very grateful you considered us. Unfortunately, we’ve read over your manuscript and we don’t feel we could be the best advocate for your work at this time, so we must pass on this opportunity to represent you._

_Best of luck,_   
_King & Crick Publishing_

He does not move. He can’t. If he does he will shatter into a thousand pieces, unable to be rebuilt. Blow after blow, punishment after punishment—he can’t recover from this.

The writing is on the wall, and he knows what he must do.

*******

It takes him three days to pack up his journals.

The temptation to burn them is overwhelming, but that’s dramatic, even for him. Instead he boxes them all up—carefully, lovingly—and leaves them to collect dust in the corner of his dorm room for a week before he finally gets up the courage to take them away. His parents have rented a long-term storage unit which he knows the code for, so he borrows a friend’s car, slings the boxes in the back seat, and drives there. It’s somewhere on the outskirts of Seoul (because that was cheaper) and by the time he gets there he no longer feels sad, just utterly resigned.

He puts the boxes, his life’s works, his feelings and thoughts and hopes and dreams thus far, next to his parents’ old sofa and lamp and slams the door behind him, acquiescent not by choice but by necessity.

The moment he gets back to the university, he submits his application to change his major online, feeling strangely empty as he does so.

__  
present  
  


It takes herculean effort to make his way through the submissions without caving and going to grab his phone from the bedroom, but somehow he manages it (mostly by telling himself that it doesn’t matter, anyway, since Sanghyuk won’t have texted). By the time he finishes it’s just getting dark, the sun disappearing into the insidious night of early winter. He collects his phone from the bedroom and pours himself a glass of scotch before opening it, and even though he’d been prepared, the lack of notifications from Sanghyuk still stings. There is one text from Taekwoon which reads _don’t forget—meeting tomorrow at 1 pm_ , and before Hakyeon can stop himself he brings up Taekwoon’s contact card and presses the call button.

“Hakyeon,” Taekwoon greets cordially. “Are you calling as my boss or as a friend?”

“Friend.”

“Great.” Hakyeon can practically see Taekwoon relaxing back onto the sofa, Gayeong’s hand curling back over his knee. “What’s up?”

He doesn’t even know. He feels listless and horrible and doesn’t want to be alone right now, but he’s already seen Jaehwan once and to drag Taekwoon across the river and away from dinner seems cruel. The one person he really wants to talk to doesn’t, it seems, want to talk to him, and even though he knows he should be the adult and text first—

He is afraid.

He exhales shakily. “I don’t know. I just wanted to talk to someone, I guess.”

“Sanghyuk trouble?” Taekwoon asks, too shrewd for his own good, as per usual.

“I suppose so.”

“What happened?”

What _has_ happened? It’s a good question. “Well, you were there when he came into the office,” he starts, and ignores Taekwoon’s snort. “We made the relationship exclusive that day… not that I’ve been sleeping with anyone else anyway. Then on Sunday we went to Lotte World and had… Well, I thought it was a good date, but now I’m not sure. He got a text halfway through this lame swan boat ride and… and now he’s being weird.”

“So have you asked him about it? This text, I mean.”

“I tried to, but he just said that he was at work and he’d text me later. That was Monday.”

Taekwoon sighs, and Hakyeon can imagine him running a hand through his hair. “Hakyeon, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’ve seen you be so ruthless in the boardroom the investors have been left shaking in their boots. Everyone at work knows not to cross you. Nothing even fazes you anymore—so why the hell does this get to you so much? Just call him. Talk to him. You can’t get anywhere without _talking_.”

“That’s what Jaehwan said,” Hakyeon says miserably.

“I never thought there’d be a time where I agree with Jaehwan, but I agree with Jaehwan.”

Hakyeon takes a long pull of his scotch, letting it wash over his tongue before he replies. “Right. Well. I’ll see you tomorrow, I suppose.”

But Taekwoon’s never the one to let Hakyeon have the last word. “Ring him,” he commands, and then hangs up.

Leaving Hakyeon standing in his empty living room in his empty apartment, no one to talk to and nothing to do, his only solace the glittering lights of the city below him.

*******

It’s a busy, busy day, which means they don’t get a moment’s peace until they’re locked in Hakyeon’s office eating lunch. Hakyeon is having the same thing he always does, some Western-style chicken salad from the cafe across the road, but today Taekwoon whips out a lunchbox and pops off the lid to reveal homemade kimbap and sides, including some sort of sausage and kimchi. Hakyeon’s eyes widen, and he leans in closer; the whole time Taekwoon and he have been working together he normally just eats crap from the convenience store or the same salad Hakyeon does.

“That’s new,” he says, pointing at it with his fork. “Gayeong getting domestic?”

Taekwoon pulls out a kimbap slice with his chopsticks and holds it up appreciatively. “Apparently. Since the university’s on break she’s got nothing to do, so she figured she’d start making me lunch.” He raises an eyebrow. “I think she hates being a housewife.”

“Who knew?” Hakyeon says dryly.

In the few times that he and Gayeong have met, he’d got that impression—she’s a lot like Taekwoon in a lot of ways, no-nonsense and no bullshit (she also compliments him looks-wise, tall and thin and angles just like Taekwoon). She teaches mathematics at one of the universities over the river and patently loves her job, hence why she hadn’t quit after matching, like a lot of women do.

They eat in silence for a while, but talking about Gayeong has made his thoughts drift towards Sanghyuk—he hasn’t called or texted—and he only lasts a few minutes before the questions bursts free of him before he can really stop it. “How did you _know?_ ” he asks, feeling like a thousand different cliches all rolled into one—every matched person will get asked that at least once in their life, usually by their younger relatives, not their _boss_.

Taekwoon looks up in shock and gestures to his ankle. “How did I know I was _matched?_ ” When Hakyeon nods, he narrows his eyes for a moment, considering, before sighing. “Well, you know how we met. Her family is pretty old-fashioned, so I had to ask her father for permission to ask her for a reveal. That was… two months in, I think?”

The match statistics and facts are drilled into their brain from birth: _Matching is humanity’s way of finding their soulmate(s). 50% of people find their match before their 30th birthday. Some people are born without marks. 6% of people are matched to people they already know. Displaying soulmarks used to be extremely taboo. 80% of match reveals occur before a year into a relationship._ Hakyeon can recite those and countless others just because of what they were all taught during their schooling, so to hear that Taekwoon asked for a reveal early in the relationship isn’t a surprise. “Go on,” he says, and stabs a piece of chicken with his fork.

“I guess… it just feels different, you know? When we touched it was—it is—like nothing else on earth. It’s like she’s the only one that exists... everything else just falls away. Totally unlike anything I’d ever felt before. She feels... safe.” He eats a piece of kimchi as silence falls between them, before the other shoe drops and his eyes widen almost comically. “Do you really think that Sanghyuk might be—”

“I don’t know,” Hakyeon sighs, putting the lid back on the salad container and slumping into the plush leather of his seat. “I just don’t know, Taekwoon.”

_five years ago_

Hakyeon feels utterly ridiculous.

The tie he’s wearing is too tight around his neck, the suit too uncomfortable, and he feels like a paper doll, stiff and folding in all the wrong places. Sitting behind this huge desk—that looks as if he’s compensating for something, even though he _isn’t_ —doesn’t feel right. It’s only the second day at their new office in Gangnam, but already he misses their old building with its open floor plan and friendly, disorganised structure that made no sense to anyone but somehow still worked. All of the staff have come across in the move, of course, but just like Hakyeon they’re now expected to wear suits and skirts to work instead of jeans and t-shirts, and when he passes them in the halls they lower their eyes like he’s some kind of god, not the boss they were playing ping pong with just last week.

It’s not fair. It’s not _fair_. He knows now that he’d been hopelessly naive; expanding the company in the way he did would of course lead to changes in company culture. He just didn’t expect it, didn’t see it coming, and now he’s lost.

He shakes himself out of his melancholy thoughts and looks down at the resume on his desk, realising he’s let time get away from him. The resume is rather imposing, thicker than Hakyeon’s own, and the list of references is a mile and a half long—impressive for a personal assistant. _Jung Taekwoon_ , the name reads, and Hakyeon sighs. “Come in,” he calls.

The door opens and Jung Taekwoon strides in, already looking more at home in Hakyeon’s new office than Hakyeon himself does. He’s tall and thin, angular, wearing a suit that’s cut to flatter his lanky form and silver earrings dangling from each lobe. His grip, when they shake hands, is firm without being too strong, and his face gives absolutely nothing away—he must be killer at poker. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he says, voice quiet and soft but with an undercurrent of iron running through it.

“You too,” Hakyeon replies as they sit down… and then his mind immediately goes blank.

When he was interviewing editors and proofreaders, that was easy; they had portfolios and examples of their work. This, though? Once more he is utterly out of his element, and he has no idea what to ask Taekwoon. He has to start talking, though, seeing as Taekwoon is starting to look at him strangely as the silence stretches on between them, and inwardly curses. This was a monumentally idiotic idea. He doesn’t even _need_ a personal assistant.

“So…” he says, and coughs into his hand. “I suppose I’ll tell you a little bit about the company. I founded Wisdom House just under two years ago, aiming to become a niche little publishing house focusing on poetry. We grew… more than expected, and here we are. Turns out there’s quite the demand for Korean poetry.” He smiles weakly.

“I know.”

Hakyeon blinks. “You know?”

“What kind of interviewee would I be if I hadn’t done my research?” Taekwoon crosses his legs and folds his hands over his knee. “You graduated at twenty-one with a BA with a major in English Lit, worked at a publishing company for three months, before leaving to found your own. You successfully navigated the business world solo, even though you don’t have a degree in business or much experience with it, and through a series of buyouts and mergers, you’ve now got a new office in Gangnam, more money than you know what to do with, and need a personal assistant.”

Hakyeon only realises his mouth is hanging open rather unattractively after a few seconds, and shuts it with a snap. “That’s awfully… astute of you,” he notes, narrowing his eyes. “And presumptuous.”

“If I have offended you, I apologise.” Taekwoon _seems_ genuine, at least; he’s incredibly hard to read. “I tend to be frank. It’s why my clients like me.”

“Ah, yes,” Hakyeon says, back on more common ground. He flips open Taekwoon’s resume and scans it, trailing down the list of references with a finger. “This is an awful lot of references in… three years.” He looks back up at Taekwoon. “Any reason for the high turnover?”

But Taekwoon’s harder to ruffle than that. He merely smiles demurely and raises his shoulders as if to say, _what can you do?_ “I like a challenge, and a lot of my previous clients didn’t require as much help as I previously thought. I like to be hands on.”

“Hands on,” Hakyeon echoes, settling back in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. “That’s relevant, see, because I’m very new to this world… the world of business and this small world that seems to be Gangnam itself. So I require a lot of assistance. Are you able to be on call 24/7? It says here you’re matched.”

And here, a crack—Taekwoon’s face twitches, although Hakyeon can’t tell at what. “Being on call is no problem for me,” he replies smoothly. “Gayeong is used to it.”

“How did you two meet?”

“On the subway,” Taekwoon says, and he smiles properly for the first time, and it’s a wonderful sight. Listening to matched couples talk about their partner is always something nice to see; there’s always so much love and warmth in their voices. “It was like something out of an awful film. I bumped into her and she dropped her handbag. Lipstick and coins went _everywhere_.” His ears have gone slightly pink, and he drops his gaze. “We’ve been matched for five years, now, so she’s used to my phone going off at all hours of the night.”

It’s a really sweet story, and Hakyeon tries to swallow the sliver of jealousy that sticks in his throat like a thorn, sharp and painful. “And why do you want to work for Wisdom House?”

At this, Taekwoon’s back in his comfort zone, and when he looks up and smiles it’s razor-sharp. “You’re a challenge.”

“Oh?”

“Please forgive me for speaking frankly, but I believe you’re out of your element.” Hakyeon raises his eyebrows, partially impressed by Taekwoon’s gall and partly shocked he’s saying this at all, and he hurriedly continues. “I understand how intimidating the world of not just business, but also the upper crust of Seoul, can be to the uninitiated. Most of my previous jobs have been assistant to chaebol heirs, so I have a good grasp on how to navigate the old money. You represent the new money, and therefore a challenge. And I’m very good at my job, sir.”

Hakyeon just sits and lets Taekwoon’s spiel wash over him. It’s impressive, to say the least, and if he’s honest he likes how frank Taekwoon is—it’s refreshing, given that the other two interviewees today seemed simpering and all-too eager to jump when he said so. Taekwoon’s not wrong, either; they both know he needs help.

“Because of my inexperience in this field,” he begins delicately, “I suspect the workload of this job will be higher than jobs you’ve held previously. In addition to being on call in the evenings, which you will be paid for, of course, you’ll be expected to hold the same office hours as I. You’ll need to field all my calls and help me deal with the board. I sometimes will need to travel overseas to visit the investors, and you will need to accompany me on those trips as well. I also want to continue overseeing some submissions to be published, so you’ll have to consolidate those for me. Overall it’s a very stressful thing I’m asking of someone. Do you really think you can handle it?”

“Yes,” Taekwoon answers confidently, as Hakyeon knows he would. “Absolutely.”

“Great.” Hakyeon stands up and offers Taekwoon his hand to shake. “I’ll be in touch in the next few days.”

He says this even though they both know it’s a farce—Taekwoon has the job in the bag. He smiles knowingly as he shakes Hakyeon’s hand and bows, turning to go. As he does, his pant leg rides up slightly, exposing his ankle and the mark that lies on it. It’s one of the most curious shapes Hakyeon has ever seen. “Taekwoon,” Hakyeon asks before he can stop himself. “Please tell me to mind my business if I’m overstepping the mark, per se, but what is your mark of?”

Taekwoon looks down at his ankle, surprised. “My mark? Oh. It’s a Koch snowflake.”

“And that is…”

“A mathematical fractal. I don’t even like maths that much, but Gayeong’s studying it, wants to teach it one day.” He smiles, that same bright smile, and it endears him to Hakyeon just a little bit more. “Fractals are shapes that repeat themselves, over and over again logically. I suppose it makes sense in its own way. Maths for her, and logic for me.” He looks back up at Hakyeon and gestures to Hakyeon’s wrist. “Are you going to show me yours?”

“How did you know?” Hakyeon murmurs, playing with the band of his watch.

“People tend to touch their marks when they’re nervous, if they can. You fiddle with your watch when you’re nervous. Just an educated guess.”

“In that case, I’ll show you if I hire you,” Hakyeon replies, and Taekwoon laughs.

_present_

His phone vibrates with a text, and he spills his coke all over himself in his hurry to get to it, thinking it’s Sanghyuk and nearly flinging it through the nearest window when he sees it’s only Taekwoon: _CALL. HIM._

Anger rolls through him, anger and frustration, and he lets that anger do what his cautiousness would not let him and pulls up Sanghyuk’s contact and presses _call_. It rings once, twice, three times, and Hakyeon thinks Sanghyuk’s not going to pick up and then—

“Hakyeon hyung.”

How can just the sound of his voice make Hakyeon feel like this? Two words and there’s already such warmth behind his breastbone he can barely believe it—oh, he’s so far gone and he has no clue what to do about it. “Sanghyuk,” he murmurs, only just looking down and realising he’s still covered in coke and his hands are getting sticky. “Long time no talk.”

“Ah,” Sanghyuk groans, just that syllable loaded with so much guilt it practically reaches through the phone to throttle Hakyeon. “Yeah… We need to talk, hyung. Can I come over?”

Hakyeon wouldn’t really consider himself an anxious person, but those four words— _we need to talk_ —suddenly fill him with such dread he finds it hard to breathe. It’s like there’s a giant hand squeezing his stomach, making him feel sick, making the world spin— _he’s coming over to break up with me oh god it’s over oh god oh god—_

“Sure,” he croaks instead of verbalising any of that, hearing Jaehwan and Taekwoon in his head screaming at him for not communicating but not knowing what else to do. “I’ll see you soon?”

“I’ll see you soon,” Sanghyuk echoes, and then he’s gone, leaving Hakyeon clutching the blaring dial tone to his ear like an anchor. Sanghyuk hadn’t _sounded_ particularly cold, in fact he’d sounded rather affectionate, but… _We need to talk_. There’s no way to say those words without sounding ominous, no way to deliver that news without evoking terror.

He turns and heads glumly for the shower, sluggish and recalcitrant to move, fearing what’s to come.

*******

It takes an hour for Sanghyuk to arrive, an hour that Hakyeon spends trying to watch TV but more realistically biting his nails until they bleed, a habit he hasn’t resorted to in an age. The life that he’s so carefully cultivated over the past five years has begun to crack and come tumbling down, and he has no idea what to do about the feelings that are beginning to be unleashed in him. He can’t tell if he’s regressing or progressing. He’s just so deep in emotions that he’d forgotten he even had, and that he doesn’t know what to do with, that he feels twenty years old again.

“Hey,” Sanghyuk says as the lift doors open, his face brightening upon seeing Hakyeon. He looks just as good as ever, dressed in black as per usual and with his hair hanging messily in his eyes. He steps in for a hug, but seems to realise how stiff and strange Hakyeon’s being; he pulls back and his face cracks. “Are you okay?”

“Did you come here to break up with me?” Hakyeon blurts, twisting his fingers together so Sanghyuk can’t see how his hands are trembling, hating how he’s suddenly such a wreck. _This is not who he is._

Sanghyuk looks stupefied. “What? No. No way! Why would you think that?”

“Because you’ve been distant,” Hakyeon starts, the relief he feels at Sanghyuk’s reassurance quickly giving way to anger once more. He fights to not let it bleed through, to keep his tone as neutral as possible; getting angry will help neither of them. “And when I rang this evening, you didn’t even offer an explanation, just said we needed to talk. I assumed you were… coming here to end it.”

“God, no, hyung.” Sanghyuk reaches for Hakyeon’s hands but reconsiders, running a hand through his hair instead. “I just—I’m not here to break up with you. I do need to tell you something, though. Why don’t we sit down?”

They move to the lounge, Hakyeon perching on the edge at one end, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. He feels as if he’s drunk or high, or something. Control is slipping away from him, his world is evolving into something he doesn’t even recognise, and all he can do is watch as Sanghyuk holds his still-beating heart in his hands.

Sanghyuk, for his part, is clearly torn about something as well. He fidgets for a few moments, and although the urge to touch him, to reassure him, is overwhelming, Hakyeon stays still. If he moves he will shatter and the emotions inside of him—fear, guilt, anger, sadness, and a whole host of others he doesn’t know what to call—will come spilling out and it will be an ugly mess. Instead he just forces himself to sit still and control his breathing.

“You know Soomin, right?” Sanghyuk starts, and Hakyeon nods—Sanghyuk’s ex-girlfriend who brought them together in a very obtuse way. “When we were at Lotte World, on the swan boat ride, I got a text from her… saying she wanted to meet up with me, that she missed me, that she was rethinking the importance of her mark.”

Hakyeon’s cheek twitches. A crack in his facade. An emotion slips through and he squeaks out, “Oh?”, wanting to scream but unable to. It is agony.

“It fucked me up,” Sanghyuk mutters, drawing a hand over his face. “What she and I had… it didn’t last very long, but it was very, very passionate and… deep, I guess. The depth of our feelings were intense even for how brief it was. I still… I thought I still loved her. And I really like you, hyung, but—”

Another emotion leaks through, this in the form of a tear that he wipes away before Sanghyuk can see.

“But I didn’t know what to feel. I’ve never felt this… torn up inside before. I didn’t know what was wrong and what was right. That’s why I haven’t been talking to you. I just needed space to think—”

Hakyeon is crumbling to dust before Sanghyuk’s very eyes, but still he continues, oblivious as always.

“And I needed to work out what I want.” Here he touches Hakyeon on the knee, eyes wide and open. “It’s not her. I’d still like to meet up with her and talk to her, just to catch up. In the day, of course. At a coffee shop or something. You can come if you want. I don’t want you to think I’m cheating on you with her… but it just took me some time to work through everything. I don’t want her back, hyung.” Here he pauses and seems to read Hakyeon’s face, although what it looks like he’s not sure. “I’m very sorry if I hurt you.”

It seems like a thousand years before Hakyeon can control his voice enough to speak without it wobbling and giving it all away. “I think,” he starts, “that leaving me out of that decision… was unfair. I think it’s obvious that you and I have different solutions to fixing problems. I like to dive in and fix them straight away. It seems you like to take a step back away from it all and only approach the problem once you feel emotionally detached enough to handle it, right?” Sanghyuk nods. “The thing is… I know that now, but I didn’t this week. I was just left in the dark. You wouldn’t talk to me and so I didn’t know and—I should have reached out but I was—but I didn’t. But we can’t keep… we can’t keep miscommunicating like this. It’s going to kill us before we even get started.”

Sanghyuk leans back slightly, and the look on his face is incomprehensible. “Why didn’t you?”

“Why didn’t I what?”

“Why didn’t you reach out?”

_Don’t make me say it, please,_ he begs silently with his eyes, _don’t make me say it, don’t make it real._ “I just didn’t.”

“Come on, hyung. You just said we can’t keep miscommunicating. Why didn’t you reach out?”

He closes his eyes and breathes Sanghyuk in, keeps him there in his chest, safe and warm. “I was afraid,” he mumbles through stiff lips, and the words feel like an acquittal and a sanction all at once.

They sit in the silence of his confession for a few moments before slowly, hesitantly, Sanghyuk takes his hand and winds their fingers together. “I thought you didn’t even _feel_ fear. Like a robot or something.”

He snorts. He can’t help it. How can he explain—he’s been terrified this entire time but is only just now recognising it, and realising how chronic it is? It’s only just become clear to him how repressed he has allowed himself to be, how long he has held himself back from feeling things out of fear of what would happen if he did, and that now he’s in the thick of it he’s constantly drowning in the barrage of emotions washing over him.

He can try, at least.

“I’ve been afraid this entire time,” he whispers, and it feels like a weight off his shoulders when he opens his eyes and meets Sanghyuk’s gaze. “I think we’re both equally afraid… but of different things. That’s probably partially where our miscommunication stems from.”

Sanghyuk shuffles a little closer and cups Hakyeon’s cheek. He leans into the touch, relaxes into the warmth and low-level electricity that Sanghyuk’s touch always sparks in him, and feels some of the pressure on his chest lessen. “I’m so sorry, hyung,” he whispers. “I know we’re both shit at communicating. But I’m trying. I’ll try harder. I didn’t mean to hurt you by leaving you out of what I was thinking… I was trying to keep you from being hurt.”

“I could tell something was up,” Hakyeon replies, covering Sanghyuk’s hand with his own. “The not knowing was worse than if I’d known.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I just… I try not to let my fear get the best of me, but it does, and then my head just runs away from me and—I get overwhelmed.”

Hakyeon is quiet for a beat before he nods. “And I’m sorry for not calling you sooner. I’m sorry for… not being honest with you, in the beginning. It’s… nearly impossible for me to admit this, but I’m terribly afraid. Have been since the moment we first met.” He smiles crookedly, weakly, and kisses Sanghyuk’s palm. “I only wish I was a robot.”

“Are you kidding? Robots suck. You’re much better.” Sanghyuk’s smiling back, but his smile is equally as strained. “Are we… are we okay?”

His first reaction is _no_ , but the more he thinks about it, the more he thinks they just might be—at least for now. He’s admitted things he’d never thought he’d be able to articulate in a million years, and Sanghyuk has apologised, and they both are hyper aware of how much better they have to do from now on. Whether they’ll succeed… remains to be seen. But at least they’re both going to try.

“We’re okay,” Hakyeon confirms. “Do you wanna come to bed?”

They strip naked, but don’t have sex, don’t even think of it. They just curl up in the middle of Hakyeon’s enormous bed and hold each other. Sanghyuk’s got his head on Hakyeon’s chest and an arm around his middle, and Hakyeon’s stroking his hair, and they just lie there and breathe in sync. It’s the nicest, most pleasant, most calming sensation Hakyeon’s felt for an age, and he almost feels like the world is spinning around them and they’re at the center of it, just watching everything go by. They are eternal and timeless. Nothing can touch them; the lights of the city sparkle on their faces but don’t intrude in the peace of the bedroom, and they don’t speak, because they don’t have to.

Hakyeon doesn’t say it. He doesn’t even want to say it; not yet. But when Sanghyuk falls asleep and rolls over, exposing his back, Hakyeon leans over and kisses between his shoulderblades and thinks, _I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i come bearing another livejournal post! [this one](https://hakyeonni.livejournal.com/5562.html) deals with the marks, specifically pictures of the marks and random little factoids! if I was better at photoshop i'd totally photoshop the marks onto pics of vixx for ya but i'm rly rly bad at ps so you'll have to use your imagination HAHA
> 
> so yes, we had a few flashbacks this chapter, and some insight into hakyeon's character. i asked my followers on [twitter](https://twitter.com/inyeonni) what they thought i needed to cover in the next few chapters, and was surprised by the responses; i hadn't written hakyeon as forthcoming as he exists in my head, and as such he was a mystery to more than a few of you. so i hope this chapter cleared up some of the mystery and gave you some look into how he's become the person he is today!
> 
> this is the first time i've sat down and wrote something long on soulmark since... february 2018. so almost a year. i hope it's not too disjointed and that everyone makes sense and is in character, but most importantly, i hope you enjoyed! the next chapter won't take as long as the last one, haha, promise!
> 
> please do comment and tell me what you think. it gives me so much motivation to keep going on this behemoth ;A; ♡


End file.
